TEEPEE    NEIGHBORS 


GRACE    COOLJDGE 


TEEPEE  NEIGHBOKS 


TEEPEE  NEIGHBORS 


BY 


GRACE  COOLIDGE 


"  Renown  and  grace  are  dead  ; 
The  w'me  of  ii^e  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees. 
Is  left." 

MACBETH 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


THE  FOUR  SEAS  PRESS 
BOSTON  MASS.  U.  5.  A. 


In  admiration,  respect,  and  expectation 

this  book  is  dedicated  to  the 

SOCIETY  OF  AMERICAN  INDIANS 

the  truest  expression  and  the  brightest 

present    hope    of    the    Indian    people. 


M578510 


Acknowledgment  for  permission  to  reprint  is  due  to 
the  Editors  of  Collier's  Weekly  and  1 'he  Outlook,  in 
which  some  of  these  sketches  first  appeared. 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE 9 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  AXE .23 

GHOSTS 28 

THE  GIFT 36 

SHADOWS 40 

CIVILIZATION 48 

"By  ANY  OTHER  NAME" 50 

AN  INDIAN  VICTORY 55 

THE  PASSING  OF  FELIX  RUNS  BEHIND 65 

THE  POT  AND  THE  KETTLE 77 

MOTHERS 79 

A  BOY'S  MOTHER 85 

THE  DEAD  BIRD 96 

A  VENTURE  IN  HARD  HEARTS 102 

THE  THROWN-AWAY  BABY 109 

THE  CAPTURE  OF  EDMUND  GOES-IN-LODGE 116 

"IN  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  BLIND" 129 

LITTLE  THINGS 135 

A  MAN 140 

LAZARUS 149 


AT  THE  END  OF  His  ROPE 154 

THE  LOVE  WOMAN 165 

THE    AGRICULTURALIST 174 

THE  INFORMERS 178 

A  MATTER  OF  CUSTOM 186 

THE  DAY  DREAM 193 

THE    UNBORN 196 

THE  MAN'S  PART 199 

TIT  FOR  TAT 211 

THE  OTHER  MAD  MAN.  .  .218 


PREFACE 

THE  OBJECTION  has  often  been  made  to  these  sketches 
that  they  are  too  sad.  "People  won't  read  such  pain 
ful  stuff,"  editors  have  said  to  me.  Then  I  slowly  look 
over  and  consider  my  pages.  Am  I  justified  in  chang 
ing  this,  or  that?  There  is  only  one  response  possible 
for  me  to  make.  "I'm  sorry,  but  they're  all  true.  I 
cannot  alter  them."  And  I  gather  up  my  manuscript 
with  a  sigh  because  I  know  so  intimately  and  so  well 
from  my  owrn  personal  experience  as  a  near  neighbor 
to  the  Indians  that  these  glimpses  of  them  are  indeed  ac 
curate.  Every  incident,  I  think,  and  almost  every 
character,  I  have  drawn  from  my  life  and  experience 
of  nearly  ten  years  spent  with  the  Indians  of  Wyoming. 
Not  everything,  of  course,  happened  just  as  it  is  set 
down,  incidents  and  events  have  been  combined,  the 
sex  and  names  of  characters  have  been  altered,  but  the 
whole  has  its  basis  in  gloomy,  even  desperate  fact ;  for 
I  have  seen  and  heard  and  handled,  and  my  memory 
is  stored  with  much  harrowing  evidence.  For  indeed 
one  of  the  most  appalling,  even  crushing  experiences 
that  can  come  to  a  person,  is  to  live  for  a  while  in  close 
touch  with  the  Indians  on  a  typical  reservation — 
crushing  and  appalling,  of  course,  vicariously  and  in 
direct  ratio  with  one's  interest  in  the  Indians,  for  it 

9 


io  Teepee  Neighbors 

is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  a  great  many  people  live  long 
on  reservations  who,  at  the  end,  are  far  indeed  from 
being  either  appalled  or  crushed. 

I  will  try  to  elucidate  a  little  this  statement.  In  the 
first  place  the  Indians  are  surrounded  by  white  people 
mainly  of  two  unfortunate  attitudes  of  mind.  The 
first  is  the  man  who  hates  the  Indian.  He  lives  gen 
erally  across  the  boundary  line  of  the  reservation;  he 
toils  on  his  side  while  the  Indian  idles  on  the  other; 
he  pays  his  grudging  taxes  while  the  Indian  exists  free 
of  charge;  he  sees  loads  of  government  freight  driven 
into  the  agency  for  free  distribution,  and  he  envies.  Of 
course  this  freight  was  bought  with  the  Indians'  own 
money,  at  the  discretion  of  the  government,  not  the 
Indian ;  without  indeed  the  consent  or  even  knowledge 
of  the  owner  of  the  funds.  His  mind  is  full  of  the  old 
evil  stories  of  the  past,  told  always  from  the  side  of 
the  Indian's  enemy.  And  he  broods  and  he  draws 
conclusions  and  he  condemns.  There  are  not  many  of 
him,  but  he  talks  and  harrangues  out  of  all  proportion 
to  his  relative  importance  in  size. 

Then  there  is  the  far  larger  class  of  neighboring 
whites  whose  attitude  toward  the  Indian  is  one  of  ab 
solute  indifference  and  uninterest.  Familiarity  of  an 
entirely  external  sort  has  bred  in  them  a  kind  of  com 
fortable  contempt.  The  Indian  is  tolerated  only  on 
account  of  his  not  inconsiderable  by-products;  free 


Teepee  Neighbors  u 

house-rent,  free  service,  a  free  automobile,  almost  free 
beef  in  these  days  of  soaring  prices;  and  so  on,  and 
principally  because  he  offers  a  field  wherein  many 
indifferent  and  incompetent  individuals  may  safely 
work  a  little  and  worry  not  at  all,  for  in  that  field  there 
exists  no  danger  of  competition,  and  once  in  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  be  ousted. 

Thus  does  the  Indian  know  the  white  man ;  thus,  and 
in  the  light  of  his  own  old  evil  stories  of  the  past.  It 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  regards  him  as  an 
altogether  unadmirable  individual.  The  sketch  called 
Civilization  is  entirely  typical  of  his  mental  attitude 
toward  his  white  neighbor. 

By  far  the  most  harrowing  fact  of  reservation  life  is 
the  great,  omnipresent,  overwhelming  and  constant 
nearness  of  death.  Indeed,  death  is  no  more  at  home 
on  the  river  Styx  itself  than  within  the  boundary  lines 
of  the  ordinary  reservation. 

The  statistics  tell  us  that  the  normal  death  rate 
among  the  whites  of  this  country  is  annually  fifteen 
per  thousand.  That  means  that  in  the  little  middle- 
western  town  in  which  I  now  live,  we  may  look  for 
about  one  hundred  and  fifty  deaths  during  the  year.  Of 
course  so  many  of  these  are  among  the  very  old  people 
that  the  end  comes  generally  as  a  normal  visitation. 
Only  now  and  then  is  the  community  shocked  by  the 
lantimeliness  of  a  death. 


12  Teepee  Neighbors 

But  among  the  Indians  the  death  rate  is  a  little  over 
thirty-two  per  thousand.  The  difference  stated  in 
numbers  does  not  appear  as  great,  but  actually  it 
means  that  with  the  Indians  death  confronts  one  on 
svery  hand.  Not  one  Indian  woman,  young  or  old, 
of  the  hundreds  I  know,  has  all  her  children  living. 
I  can  recall  mothers  who  even  have  borne  nine,  ten, 
twelve,  fourteen,  and  have  lost  them  all.  When  a  baby 
is  born  to  your  Indian  neighbor,  you  look  at  it  with 
your  heart  in  your  eyes  and  wonder:  How  long? 
Nothing  struck  me  more  forcibly  when  I  left  the 
reservation — where  I  was  married  and  where  my  first 
three  children  were  born — and  went  to  live  in  a  white 
community,  than  the  wonderful  fact  that  almost  every 
one  of  the  babies  born  to  my  white  neighbors  lived. 

And  among  the  Indians  not  only  the  babies  die,  but 
equally  the  young  and  apparently  strong, — the  ones  in 
whom  should  exist  the  hope  of  the  race. 

There  are  reasons  for  these  conditions,  of  course. 
Reduced  vitality  from  constant  underfeeding  due  to 
extreme  poverty  is  one  of  them — I  wonder  if  white 
people  generally  realize  that  a  certain  proportion  of 
their  Indian  neighbors  die  of  actual  starvation  every 
winter?  An  almost  complete  lack  of  adequate  or  com 
petent  medical  attendance  contributes ;  so  does  super 
stition,  resulting  in  the  practice,  unhindered  by  the 
government,  of  medicine  men  and  of  a  certain  class  of 


Teepee  Neighbors  13 

old  women.  When  I  lived  in  Wyoming  a  graduate 
osteopath  might  not  receive  a  license  to  practice  med 
icine  in  the  state  in  his  way,  and  yet  on  the  reservation 
the  medicine  man  might  malpractice  unhampered. 

The  Indian's  attitude  toward  death  is  interesting. 
Personally  I  found  it  both  illuminating  and  inspiring. 
He  is  not  civilized ;  that  is,  he  is  not  a  materialist — for 
is  not  your  so-called  civilized  Indian,  the  one  who  lives 
in  a  house  rather  than  a  teepee,  and  who  has  given  up 
his  paint  and  nakedness  for  store-bought  clothes? — 
therefore  he  does  not,  as  an  axiom  of  conduct,  use 
any  and  every  expedient  to  keep  the  breath  in  his  body 
, — and  this  regardless  of  the  state  of  decrepitude  of 
that  body — choosing  life  invariably  rather  than  death. 
Indeed  death  is  not  to  him  the  castastrophe  it  is  to  the 
ordinary  human  product  of  civilization.  He  is  no 
fatalist  like  the  Oriental,  but  rather  he  regards  the 
coming  of  his  last  long  sleep  simply  as  he  would 
the  approach  of  night  or  winter  with  their  added  but 
normal  rigors.  With  his  native  dignity  he  meets  it 
fairly  in  the  way.  Nor  is  his  mind  compelled  by  fear. 
He  is  able  to  use  his  judgment  in  this  greatest  crisis 
as  he  would  do  in  any  other. 

"If  you  have  your  leg  amputated  your  life  will  be 
saved;  if  not,  you  will  die."  The  doctor  speaks;  the 
interpreter,  probably  one  of  the  sick  man's  own  chil 
dren,  makes  the  meaning  plain.  The  man  addressed 


14  Teepee  Neighbors 

smokes  his  pipe  slowly,  considering.  At  length  he 
draws  the  stem  from  his  lips  and  looks  up.  "I  will 
die,"  he  says.  And  from  the  moment  of  making  his 
decision — a  natural,  though  none  the  less  painful,  one 
to  his  friends — in  his  whole  attitude  of  mind  he  abides 
calmly  by  his  choice.  His  family  do  not  try  to  deter 
him.  The  wisdom,  also  the  finality  of  his  decision,  are 
undoubted. 

No,  the  Indian  has  not  the  dread,  the  terror,  the  total 
aversion  to  death  of  the  civilized  man ;  and  undoubt 
edly,  as  I  believe,  this  is  because  the  material  side  of  life 
is  not  the  one  which  he  has  been  taught  and  encouraged 
to  regard  as  pre-eminent.  When  he  goes,  he  is  not 
forever  relinquishing  so  much  of  value.  In  the  old 
days  so  far  indeed  was  he  from  being  a  materialist 
that  he  failed  to  lay  claim  to  the  few  necessities 
of  his  existence — what  must  be  possessed  belonged  to 
his  women-folk;  the  teepee,  the  robes,  the  travois,  etc. 
As  for  him,  save  for  his  horses  and  his  weapons,  he 
stood  as  naked  before  God  as  did  the  pine  tree.  And 
like  the  pine  tree  he  took  with  simple  openmindedness 
the  sun  and  the  storms  as  they  came.  That  attitude 
of  spirit  gave  him  another  quality  which  is  one  of  his 
greatest  assets,  that  of  poise.  He  can  remain  unruffled 
and  unmoved  in  the  face  of  the  gyrations  and  panic  of 
the  mob.  In  fact  I  have  never  seen  a  man  whose  mind 
was  so  unaffected  by  objective  influences  as  the 


Teepee  Neighbors  15 

Indian's.  As  an  individual,  therefore,  he  comes  very 
near  to  being  a  free  and  perfect  whole.  Undoubtedly 
in  rejecting  the  Indian  we  have  lost  some  valuable 
ingredients  from  our  national  melting  pot. 

But  today,  alas !  the  Indian  is  an  individual  harried 
and  distressed.  Unnatural  conditions  hedge  him  about. 
Artificial  laws  hamper  him.  His  native  values  are 
discredited.  His  horizon  has  perhaps  been  enlarged — 
but  at  the  cost  of  being  lowered.  And  always  at  his 
elbow  stands  Death. 

Two  qualities,  or  attitudes  of  mind  toward  life  as  he 
knows  it,  are  characteristics  of  the  Indian.  One  is  his 
universal  and  deep  love  of  children.  Each  new  baby 
comes  as  an  event,  hailed,  welcomed,  received  with 
unclouded  joy  by  family,  kinsmen  and  tribesmen  alike. 
Every  baby  is  everybody's  business.  I  once  had  a 
young  father  announce  to  me  in  this  manner  the  birth 
of  his  first-born.  "One  more  Arapahoe  baby  !"  he  cried, 
"My  wife  has  a  little  boy."  This  intense  love  of  child 
hood  is  a  touching  quality.  It  would  seem  as  though 
each  new  little  one  came  as  a  sort  of  symbol,  of  the  re 
birth  of  hope,  perhaps,  or  of  the  resurrection  of  life. 

The  other  trait  is  a  certain  child-like  attitude  in  the 
face  of  the  augmenting  wretchedness  of  his  existence, 
of  patience,  mixed  with  a  degree  of  perplexity,  best 
illustrated,  I  think,  by  a  conversation  I  once  held  with 
an  old  woman  who  lived  across  the  valley  from  us. 


16  Teepee  Neighbors 

Six  months  before  this  talk  took  place  a  young  woman 
had  died,  leaving  a  little  girl  of  about  three.  I,  know 
ing  that  there  were  no  grandparents  on  either  side  to 
care  for  the  little  thing — the  government  makes  no 
provision  for  Indian  orphans — sent  for  the  father  to 
come  and  see  me  so  that  I  might  ask  him  for  the  child. 
According  to  Indian  custom  the  child  and  its  disposal 
belong  exclusively  to  the  mother.  "I  am  willing 
enough,"  he  replied,  "but  when  my  wife  was  dying 
she  gave  the  little  one  to  an  old  woman."  (He  named 
her.  She  is,  by  the  way,  the  same  woman  who  figures 
in  the  sketch  called  Mothers.}  "I  don't  know  wheth 
er  or  not  this  woman  really  wants  her.  Wait  till  they 
have  stopped  feeling  so  bad  and  then  ask  and  find  out." 

I  followed  his  advice.  In  time  I  sent  one  of  the  young 
men,  who  spoke  English,  over  to  the  camp  with  the 
message.  But  the  answer  she  sent  back  to  me  was 
that  she  did  indeed  desire  to  keep  the  child.  Her  own 
were  long  since  dead.  This  one  was  all  that  remained 
to  her.  Presently  she  came  across  the  valley  to  see 
me;  to  make  things,  if  not  clearer,  at  least  more  per 
sonal.  She  talked  in  signs  and  I  understood  her  as 
best  I  could. 

"I  have  had  nine  children,"  was  what  she  said,  "and 
they  are  all  dead."  Indeed  her  scanty  grizzled  hair 
was  short  from  ceremonial  severing,  and  the  last  joints 
of  both  little  fingers  were  lacking,  an  old-fashioned  and 


Teepee  Neighbors  17 

extreme  demonstration  of  grief.  Then,  with  her  old 
eyes  on  mine — pleasant  eyes  in  a  pleasant  face,  neither 
bitter,  nor  hard,  nor  desperate  as  with  a  sort  of  inward 
start  I  could  not  help  remarking,  but  instead,  noticeably 
sweet  and  patient — it  is  a  fact  of  which  I  suddenly  just 
then  became  conscious,  that  never,  no  matter  what  the 
provocation,  have  I  heard  an  Indian  indulge  in  self- 
commiseration — with  a  twist  of  the  wrist  she  balanced 
her  old  mutilated  hand  back  and  forth.  "Why?"  she 
asked  me  in  the  sign  language.  "Why?" 

We  hear  much  these  days  of  the  "Indian  Question." 
But  on  that  day,  talking  to  the  old  woman,  there  it 
seemed  to  me  it  was,  with  one  twist  of  the  wrist.  The 
patient  old  eyes  looked  into  mine  and  asked  me  the 
question  which  civilization  has  thrust  upon  the  Indian 
people.  Why?  Why? 

Why,  the  Indians  ask,  why  must  we  and  our  children 
and  our  old  people  die  for  want  of  medicine  and  sur 
gery,  and  food  and  nursing?  We  have  millions  in  the 
United  States  treasury  with  which  to  pay  for  these 
things  if  only  the  government  would  put  our  own 
money  into  our  hands.  Why,  for  the  same  reason 
must  we  often  languish  in  the  jails,  waiting  perhaps 
as  much  as  six  months  for  the  next  term  of  our  local 
court,  because  none  of  our  friends  have  money  to  go 
on  our  bail?  Why  may  an  agent  throw  any  one  of  us 
into  the  agency  lockup  and  keep  us  there  indefinitely 


i8  Teepee  Neighbors 

and  without  any  process  of  law  because  he  so  chooses? 
Why  may  we  not  invest  what  money  is  allowed  us,  in 
teams  or  farming  implements  except  at  the  discretion 
and  by  the  direction  of  the  agent  and  from  the  sources 
he  selects?  Why  may  we  not  cross  the  lin-  of  our 
reservation  without  the  agent's  written  permit,  given  or 
withheld  as  he  alone  sees  fit,  and  limited  in  time 
according  to  his  judgment  or  wish?  Why  do  many 
crimes  of  Indians  against  Indians  go  unpunished  while 
small  misdemeanors  against  agency  employees  receive 
the  maximum  sentence  the  law  permits?  Why  are  the 
soldiers  who  are  stationed  on  the  reservation,  partly, 
we  understand,  to  protect  us,  often  the  greatest  menace 
to  our  women  and  girls?  Why  does  the  goveinment 
place  our  children  in  the  reservation  schools  where 
they  must  remain  between  the  ages  of  six  and  eighteen, 
and  yet  take  them  no  further  in  their  studies  than  the 
fourth  grade,  where,  we  understand,  little  white  chil 
dren  of  eight  or  nine  belong?  Why,  in  this  connection, 
do  the  big  non-reservation  schools  offer  no  higher  ed 
ucation  to  their  students  than  the  eight  grammar 
grades,  and  then  send  them  out  into  the  world  to 
compete  with  whites  from  the  universities?  And  yet 
we  hear  of  many  non-government-educated  Indians 
who  are  graduates  of  high  schools  and  colleges. 

Why  may  we  not,  because  we  are  Indians,  have  re 
course  to  the  Court  of  Claims,  as  may  all  other  peoples, 


Teepee  Neighbors  19 

except  by  the  consent  of  Congress?  Why  are  laws 
relating  to  us  not  codified,  so  that  we  may  have  some 
way  of  finding  out  what  is  allowed  us  and  what  ex 
pected  of  us?  Why  have  not  the  Indians,  who  are  the 
first,  the  only  native  Americans,  the  inherent  right  of 
citizenship?  Why,  if  not  otherwise  accorded  us,  does 
not  the  diploma  of  one  of  the  government's  own  schools 
for  us  lead  directly  to  it?  Why  must  our  eligibility  for 
citizenship  depend  upon  the  favorable  report  of  an 
agent,  or  on  the  findings  of  a  "Competency  Commit 
tee?"  Why  is  the  Indian  Bureau,  with  its  host  of  em 
ployees,  still  maintained  by  the  government?  Why 
will  the  people  of  the  United  States  allow  millions  a 
year  of  their  taxes  to  be  appropriated  by  Congress  to 
carry  on  the  old,  worn-out,  debilitating,  crushing  res 
ervation  system  which  outgrew  its  usefulness  at  least 
a  generation  ago?  All  Indians  now  under  forty,  or 
forty-five,  except  on  very  remote  reservations,  such  as 
the  Navajo — though  these  people  have  always  been 
self-supporting  through  their  native  industries — have 
attended  the  schools  and  speak  English  and  know 
enough  of  civilized  customs  to  give  them  a  fair  chance 
of  making  a  living  in  the  world.  Why,  then,  must  this 
elaborate  paternal  system  be  maintained  to  support  our 
few  remaining  old  people?  Why? 

Not,  of  course,  that  my  old  neighbor  with  the  pleas 
ant  eyes  dreamed  of  all  these  complexities,  but  the 


2O  Teepee  Neighbors 

burden  and  weight  of  them  she,  with  the  rest  of  her 
people,  felt,  though  not  discerning.  But  many,  many  of 
the  Indians  do  dream  of  them,  and  their  dreams  are  not 
roseate. 

This  Indian  question  is  the  Indians'  question.  It  is 
time  indeed  that  their  white  neighbors  in  general  were 
taking  it  to  heart  and  answering  it. 

G.  C. 
Oct.  6,  1916. 


TEEPEE  NEIGHBOKS 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  AXE 

IT  WAS  one  of  those  days  in  Wyoming,  sharp  and  sting 
ing  past  belief,  when  you  go  out  with  reluctance  and 
only  as  you  must.  But  the  Half-breed,  having  some 
thing  particular  to  say  to  me  and  wishing  to  impart  it 
on  the  instant,  had  come  forth  for  that  purpose,  regard 
less,  His  lean  pony  stood  now  at  our  hitching  rack,  its 
head  low,  one  gaunt  hip  thrust  up  above  the  level  of  the 
other,  while  its  master  and  I,  sitting  side  by  side  before 
the  stove,  leaned  forward,  our  elbows  on  our  knees,  our 
eyes  glaring  at  each  other.  For  we  were  arguing  pas 
sionately.  My  friend  was  in  a  mood  sardonic  to  the 
point  of  ugliness.  He  spared  no  one,  his  words  were 
two-edged  swords,  he  flung  caution  to  the  dogs. 

" — everlastingly  crammed  down  your  gullet;  ever 
lastingly  reminded  that  you're  the  under  dog ;  everlast 
ingly  shown  the  way  and  then  told  with  a  curl  of  the 
lip  that  you're  incapable  of  following  it.  . ." 

He  gesticulated  with  abandon,  spoke  as  though  he 
were  declaiming.  "There's  not  a  white  man  living  who 
hasn't  that  point  of  view,  bar  none." 

He  had  to  pause  just  an  instant  for  breath,  long 
enough  at  any  rate  to  let  me  cry,  shaking  my  finger  in 
his  face :  "But  look  at  me !  Look  at  me !" 

He  looked.  It  was  his  lip  that  curled,  though  I  was 
kind  enough  not  to  call  his  attention  to  the  fact. 

"You!"  he  cried.  "Aren't  you  always  sending  the 
23 


24  Teepee  Neighbors 

white  doctor  to  them?  Aren't  you  always  instilling 
'white'  ideas  of  hygiene  into  them?  Aren't  you  the  one 
who  in  winter  buys  arctics  for  them — fruit  of  this 
vaunted  civilization?  Isn't  it  you  who  advocates  their 
going  to  law  ?  Going  to  perdition,  7  say !" 

"You  say  other  things  too.  You  cry  down  the  med 
icine  men  as  much  as  I  do.  You  denounce  the  old  un 
clean  ways.  You — " 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  have.  But  now  I  say,  if  a  man's  got 
to  die,  at  least  give  him  the  privilege  of  choosing  his 
own  poison.  Your  white  man  not  only  kills  the  Indian 
but  wants  to  dictate  the  very  manner  of  his  death." 

Then  at  last  he  took  note  of  my  efforts  to  stay  the 
torrent  of  his  words. 

"I  wish  you'd  be  still  for  just  one  minute.  I  think 
there's  some  one  knocking." 

We  both  turned  our  eyes  toward  the  door. 

The  sound  being  made  against  it  was  not  exactly 
that  of  knocking,  rather  it  seemed  that  an  unfamiliar 
hand  fumbled  at  the  knob. 

"Won't  you  see?"    I  said. 

He  crossed  the  room,  seized  the  handle,  flung  open 
the  door.  The  Half-breed  was  one  who  never  did 
anything  by  halves. 

A  muffled  old  man  stood  upon  the  step. 

"Come  in,"  cried  the  Half-breed. 

The  old  man,  stamping  and  shuffling,  made  encum- 


Teepee  Neighbors  25 

bered,  noisy  progress  across  the  room.     I  offered  him 
my  visitor's  vacated  chair. 

He  was  a  very  old  man  and  very  much  wrapped  up, 
his  feet  and  legs  were  bound  about  with  gunny  sacks ; 
his  head  and  shoulders  swathed,  layer  on  layer,  in 
strange,  inappropriate  materials.  Finally  his  head  was 
crowned  with  the  folds  of  a  pin  "fascinator."  The 
effect  of  his  lined  and  wizened  face  peering  from  this 
roseate  frame  was  indescribable. 

He  lowered  himself  safely  into  the  proffered  chair, 
peeled  off  a  few  of  his  enshrouding  layers,  stretched 
out  his  old  hands  toward  the  blaze,  leaned  back  tent 
atively  but  with  satisfaction  against  the  softness  of  the 
upholstery. 

"Do  you  think  he  wants  anything?" 

The  Half-breed  asked  him  in  Indian. 

"He  says  he  is  cold  and  as  he  was  driving  by  he  just 
thought  he  would  come  in." 

"Oh !  Well,  tell  him  to  stay  as  long  as  he  likes  and 
warm  up." 

The  Half-breed  found  himself  another  chair  and 
drew  it  near  to  mine.  We  endeavored,  feebly,  to  con 
tinue  our  discussion,  but  in  the  face  of  those  old  search 
ing  eyes  our  efforts  lacked  spontaneity.  Then  we 
talked  of  incidentals;  still  at  the  sound  of  the  incom 
prehensible  words,  the  old  man  sat  staring  at  us,  de- 
tatched  and  somnolent. 


26  Teepee  Neighbors 

At  last  his  silent  presence  got  upon  my  nerves. 

"Surely  he's  warmed  up  now." 

"Shall  I  ask  him?" 

"Of  course  not!     He'll  think  I  want  him  to  go." 

"Which  you  do." 

"Well,  but  I  don't  mean  that  he  shall  know  it." 

"Don't  think  about  him." 

"He  must  be  bored  sitting  there  idle  so  long." 

"I  thought  you  understood  Indians." 

I  shot  him  a  glance.  "I  shall  give  him  some  pictures 
to  look  at  anyway.  It  will  be  much  better  for  his  mind 
than  so  much  vacancy." 

The  eyes  of  the  Half-breed  twinkled  suddenly.  "By 
all  means,"  he  cried,  "civilize  him !  It's  never  too  late 
for  that,  nor  they  too  old.  What  missionaries  the 
whites  are!  What  apostles  of  progress!  What — " 

"Do  you  mind  giving  him  this  book  and  telling  him 
it's  got  some  nice  pictures  in  it?  Some  of  them  are 
Indian  ones." 

The  old  man  accepted  the  book,  listened  solemnly 
to  the  explanation.  Then  he  settled  the  volume  on  his 
uncertain  knees,  opened  it  at  the  back,  and  awkwardly 
with  a  moistened  thumb  succeeded  in  lifting  and  turn 
ing  its  leaves.  He  bent  laboriously  to  his  task. 

But  he  was,  I  soon  discovered,  even  more  disturbing 
when  occupied  than  he  had  been  idle.  The  Half-breed 
seemed  to  feel  this  also.  After  a  while  he  went  and 


Teepee  Neighbors  27 

stationed  himself  behind  the  Indian's  chair,  looking 
over  his  shoulder  at  my  vaunted  pictures. 

Then  the  old  man  paused  and  suddenly  lifted  his 
book.  He  slewed  himself  about,  this  way  and  that,  to 
get  it  or  his  dim  eyes  more  into  the  light.  He  peered 
closely  at  the  exposed  page.  The  Half-breed  as  well 
leaned  a  little  forward. 

"What's  the  picture?"  asked  I,  curiously. 

"It's  a  naked  'savage'  on  the  ground,  and  a  white 
man  standing  over  him  with  an  axe  upraised." 

In  the  depths  of  his  old  throat  the  aged  Indian  chuck 
led  a  little.  Then  over  his  shoulder  he  flung  a  remark 
to  the  Half-breed  who  listened,  twinkled,  then  laughed. 

I  looked  up  expectantly. 

"He  says,"  said  the  Half-breed  slowly,  "that  if  an 
Indian  had  made  that  picture  he  would  have  had  the 
white  man  on  the  ground." 


GHOSTS 

HE  WAS  a  little  boy,  a  very  little  boy,  but  as  naughty 
as  he  was  small.  In  the  autumn  his  people  put  him  in 
the  Government  school,  thus  at  a  blow  robbing  him  of 
his  freedom,  his  tongue — for  he  might  not  speak  Indian 
and  knew  as  yet  no  English — his  tastes,  his  instincts, 
his  pursuits;  of  everything,  in  short,  except  his  ingenu 
ity.  Above  his  sealed  mouth  his  little,  up-tilted  eyes 
ranged  and  returned,  sought  and  seemed  to  find;  then 
his  small  round  face  from  bearing  the  stamp  of  vacancy 
grew  guardedly  eager  and  finally  satisfied  to  the  point 
of  being  actually  smug. 

One  day  he  was  found  bending  absorbedly  over  the 
agent's  back  yard  fence.  On  nearer  approach  he  seem 
ed  to  be  fishing  with  rod  and  string  and  baited  hook. 
His  game,  alas !  was  the  agent's  chickens !  Lying  on 
the  ground  at  his  feet  and  proving  his  prowess  were 
several  victims,  sprawled  in  ruffled  impotency. 

At  the  sound  of  his  discoverer's  voices  he  turned, 
revealing  a  face  alight  with  a  sportsman's  triumph.  But 
the  glow  faded  as  a  hand  reached  up  and  brought  him 
to  earth.  Subsequently  the  same  hand  gave  him  a  taste 
of  this  world's  possible  pains  and  penalties. 

Sunday  during  the  hour  of  service  was  a  favorite 
time  with  him.  He  could  so  easily  disappear  beneath 
the  pews  to  emerge  only  when  and  where  he  pleased. 
Hands  grabbing  stealthily  at  vanishing  feet  and  coat 

28 


Teepee  Neighbors  29 

tails  were  seldom  able  to  check  his  progress.  The 
•clergyman  finally  complained  to  the  superintendent. 

Nights  in  the  dormitory  were  also  enlivened  by  him. 
When  bigger  boys  came  to  bed,  shuffling,  and  mut 
tering  under  their  breath,  he  would  wake  up — the  little 
boys  had  retired  two  hours  earlier.  Then  when  the 
lights  were  out  and  the  door  locked  for  the  night  from 
the  outside,  he  would  slip  from  under  the  red  Govern 
ment  blankets,  and,  white-clad  and  noiseless,  progress 
from  bed  to  bed,  stealing  along,  a  shadow  amongst 
shadows,  till  entrenched  in  a  secure  corner  of  cupboard 
or  window  or  empty  bed,  safe  from  the  reach  of  the 
longest  arm,  he  would  begin  a  series  of  weird,  blood- 
chilling  cries,  unearthly,  mournful.  Clipped  listen 
ing  heads  would  duck  beneath  blankets,  clutching  hands 
seek  the  solidity  of  Government  matresses ;  bedfellow 
would  hug  bedfellow;  and  the  hearts  of  those  sons  of 
warriors  would  pound  painfully.  Finally — and  valiantly 
— some  boy  would  plunge  from  his  bed,  and  in  disgust 
kick  the  little  ghost  into  silence ;  then  the  small  disturb 
er  woud  slink  away  through  the  shadows,  fists  dug  into 
his  eyes,  and  creep  into  the  oblivion  of  his  blankets, 
nestling  himself  against  his  bedfellow's  warm  if  hostile 
back. 

The  next  night  he  who  had  kicked  was  likely  to 
receive,  just  before  the  wailing  of  the  ghost  began,  a 
sudden,  unaccountable  and  vicious  pinch. 


3O  Teepee  Neighbors 

Of  course,  before  long,  rumors  of  these  nocturnal 
disturbances  reached  the  ears  of  those  who  had  in 
charge  the  boys'  dormitory. 

Lickings  were  tried  on  the  culprit  but  proved  in 
effectual.  Other  measures  were  resorted  to,  but  with 
out  hope;  felt  beforehand  to  be  inadequate.  He  was 
such  a  little  boy  and  his  naughtiness  was  so  out  of  all 
proportion  to  his  size. 

At  last  in  despair  the  superintendent  put  him  in  the 
guard  house,  the  real  guard  house  at  the  Agency,  not 
the  school  lock-up,  but  the  place  for  grown-up  offen 
ders,  for  malefactors,  ever;  the  place  where — breath 
lessly  that  night  in  the  dormitory  it  was  remembered — 
a  visiting  Ute  medicine  man,  a  madman,  had  been  con 
fined  and  had — died And  the  superintendent  had 

said  that  the  boy  was  to  be  left  there  for  the  night. 


It  was  dark  in  the  guard  house,  and  it  was  cold,  and 
supper  of  water  and  dry  bread  is  a  thing  soon  forgotten. 
Also  when  you  have  a  body  that  is  uncomfortable  and 
a  head  that  is  always  daring  you  to  perform  just  one 
feat  more . . . 

Sitting  hunched  in  the  center  of  the  stone  floor,  list 
less,  trying  to  acquire  patience,  suddenly  he  realized 
that  his  eye  had  begun  to  measure.  Then  up  reached  his 


Teepee  Neighbors  31 

hand,  following  it.  There  was  a  very  little  opening  in 
the  wall  above  the  door  where  the  adobe  bricks  looked 
loose  and  through  which  could  be  seen  a  patch  of  vivid 
sunset  sky . . .  The  situation  seemed  impossible — but  the 
room  was  deep  in  shadows,  its  corners  full  of  night, 
and  somewhere  without  an  owl  cried  weirdly .... 

The  boy  felt  the  spur  of  necessity,  raised  to  his 
tiptoes,  propped  himself  with  a  knee,  strained,  grasped, 
strove — and  then  suddenly,  attained.  The  bricks  were 
easy  to  pry  out.  As  the  sky  darkened  the  opening  in  his 
wall  widened.  Behind  him  lay  a  well  of  shuddering 
darkness,  before  him  the  whole  wide  world.  . . 

With  a  thud  he  came  down  on  the  ground  outside. 
He  picked  himself  up.  He  looked  about.  At  any  rate 
there  were  no  ghosts  in  sight,  of  medicine  men  or  of 
others.  But — he  was  outside  the  guardhouse  when  he 
had  been  carefully  deposited  within  it;  and  he  was  in 
the  midst  of  the  Agency.  It  was  nearly  dark  of  course, 
but  sooner  or  later  he  must  be  discovered,  even  if  he 
went  home — a  dreadful  ordeal  to  undertake  in  the 
night — or  if  he  returned  to  the  school,  or  if  he  sought 
out  the  agent's  house  and  gave  himself  up.  His  quick 
little  mind  considered  all  the  possibilities. 

Somewhere  about  his  clothes  he  had  stowed  away  a 
wad  of  chewed  gum.  His  hands,  thrust  into  his 
pockets  for  warmth,  suddenly  came  upon  it.  For  com 
fort's  sake  he  pulled  it  out  and  put  it  into  his  mouth . . . 


32  Teepee  Neighbors 


Little  uncertain  fingers  pecked  rather  than  knocked 
at  the  agent's  door.  The  agent  looking  up  from  his  book 
at  the  sound  was  surprised  to  see  no  shadow  against  the 
lighted  glass  in  the  upper  half  of  the  door. 

"Who  on  earth — ?"  he  cried,  and  opened  his  door. 

A  little  shaver,  earth-stained,  begrimed,  hatless,  stood 
at  his  feet  looking  upward  obliquely  from  timid  eyes. 
One  hand  was  pressed  against  the  side  of  his  head. 

"Why,  it's  Johnny !"  cried  the  agent,  and  a  kindly 
hand  went  out  to  the  boy's  shoulder.  It  was  as  though 
the  image  of  the  littlest,  naughtiest  boy  of  the  school, 
who  should  have  been  cowering  alone  in  the  ghost-in 
fested  guard  house,  the  image  which  all  the  evening 
had  been  obtruding  itself  between  the  agent  and  his 
book,  had  now  suddenly  become  corporeal. 

"Come  in,  boy.  Come  in  here.  Why,  how  did  you 
get  out?" 

The  little  fellow  obeyed,  reluctantly  it  almost  seemed. 
Inside,  he  crowded  close  against  the  agent's  legs.  He 
still  held  a  hand  to  the  side  of  his  head.  His  little,  up- 
tilted  eyes  showed  perilously  near  to  tears. 

At  last  in  a  thick  uncertain  whisper  he  spoke  a  single, 
all-elucidating  word :  "Ghosts  !" 

"You  were  afraid.  I  told  the  superintendent  he  was 
going  too  far  in  shutting  you  up  in  there." 

The  little  head  nodded. 


Teepee  Neighbors  33 

"Why  do  you  hold  your  head  that  way?  Are  you 
hurt?" 

"Yes.    Me  hurt." 

"Let  me  see." 

The  boy  removed  his  hand  and  bent  his  head.  It 
might  have  been  noticed  that  he  turned  the  injured  side 
a  little  from  the  light. 

"You've  hurt  your  head.  Right  at  the  edge  of  your 
hair  there's  a  great  lump.  Let  me  feel."  The  explor 
ing  fingers  reached  forth  gently. 

But  the  boy  winced,  dodging  suddenly. 

"No,  no!    Hurt!" 

"Let  me  put  something  on  it." 

"No,  no!" 

"Just  a  little  hot  water.'5 

The  boy  began  to  cry. 

"There !  There !  Don't  do  that,  I  won't  bother  you. 
I  won't  touch  it." 

"Sure?" 

"Of  course.     Quite  sure." 

The  tears  ceased  tentatively,  but  the  little  up-tilted 
eyes  were  evidently  on  their  guard. 

The  agent  was  stirred.  Although  it  was  evening 
he  ordered  his  team  pre-emptorily.  While  they 
waited  for  the  buggy  to  be  brought  the  boy  sat  on  a 
chair,  one  hand  to  the  side  of  his  head,  the  other 
turning  with  carefully  suppressed  avidity  the  pages  of 


34  Teepee  Neighbors 

the  comic  supplement  of  the  last  Sunday  paper.     At 

length  he  lifted  his  eyes  wistfully.       "Hungry,"    he 

whispered. 

"Why,  of  course.    Old  fool  bachelor  that  I  am!" 
The  man  disappeared  into  his  kitchen  to  return  with 

plunder. 

During  the  two  mile  drive  to  the  school  the  boy 

munched  contentedly. 


"It  was  no  place  to  have  put  a  child." 

"I  suppose  not,"  assented  the  superintendent  rue 
fully.  "It'll  not  happen  again." 

Together  they  carried  the  boy  off  to  bed.  Nothing 
would  induce  him  to  let  them  touch  his  head. 

"Morning,"  he  would  cry.  "Morrow.  No  tonight." 
Then  he  would  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  grief. 

"Poor  little  cuss !    Frightened  half  sick." 

In  the  morning  the  superintendent  sent  for  him.  A 
big  boy  brought  him  to  the  office.  But  he  appeared 
a  very  wilted  little  fellow  in  the  big  one's  hands.  The 
sparkle  was  all  gone  from  his  eyes. 

"And  his  head?"  asked  the  superintendent. 

As  the  big  boy  wheeled  him  around,  and  not  too 
gently,  it  seemed  as  though  his  very  knees  bent  beneath 
him.  The  big  one  turned  to  the  man's  view  the  space 
behind  the  little  one's  ear.  It  was  exceedingly  clean, 


Teepee  Neighbors  35 

bore  indeed  the  marks  of  recent  and  vigorous  scrub 
bing;  there  was  also  a  queer  jagged  cut  up  into  his 
hair.  That  was  all. 

The  big  boy  spoke.  "Tell  him,"  he  commanded, 
sternly. 

But  the  little  one  was  past  speech,  sobbing,  quite 
dissolved  in  tears. 

"Then  me,  I  tell  him.  Mr.  Knight,  he  ain't  got  no 
bump.  That  thing  behind  his  ear  was  gum,  chewin' 
gum.  He—" 

"What?"     cried  the  superintendent. 

"He  was  scared  after  he  got  out  that  guard  house 
so  he  took  his  gum  and  he  stuck  it — " 

But  the  superintendent  laid  a  helpless  head  down 
on  his  table. 

The  big  boy  stopped,  astonished. 

"What,"  he  began  gleefully,  "what  you  goin'  do  to 
him  now?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  the  superintend 
ent  disclosed  one  suffused  eye. 

"Nothing,"  he  said. 


THE  GIFT 

THE  OLD  couple  came  in  without  knocking.  It  was 
nearly  dinner  time,  the  morning  was  very  frosty. 
Though  not  tied,  their  lank,  small  horses  stood  by  the 
hitching  rack,  their  heads  drooped  in  resignation.  The 
man  was  old,  but  wide  and  powerful  of  frame,  his 
wife  was  a  large  stately  woman;  she  walked  a  little 
heavily.  As  I  watched  her  fold  her  shawl  about  her 
ample  bosom,  the  handsome  marked  lines  of  her  face 
visible  in  profile,  I  remembered  that  it  was  said  about 
the  camps  that  once,  in  her  youth,  a  man  had  been 
shot  for  her  sake.  They  shook  hands  as  with  special 
meaning.  They  gave  us  searching  looks,  veiled  smiles. 
Their  faces  were  kindly;  his  decidedly  aged. 

Sitting  uncomfortably  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  the 
old  man  talked  to  us  in  the  Indian  sign  language, 
using  his  gnarled,  dark  hands. 

It  seemed  that  he  had  brought  a  gift.  We  stood  in 
front  of  him  grasping  at  his  meaning.  Christmas  was 
just  past,  and  in  the  dance  hall  there  had  been  the 
usual  tree,  laden  with  appropriate  and  plentiful  gifts 
sent  from  the  East  by  compassionate  friends.  A  few 
years  ago  the  tribe  had  had  no  trees,  no  gifts.  It  was 
wonderful,  he  thought,  that  these  friends  who  now 
supplied  them  had  never  seen  him  nor  his  people.  He 
understood  that  they  lived  very,  very  far  away,  and 
yet — they  gave,  and  in  the  dark,  as  it  seemed  to  him. 


Teepee  Neighbors  37 

He  thought  they  might  as  well  have  stood  at  the  head 
waters  of  some  stream  and  flung  in  their  possessions 
as  to  give  thus  strangely  to  unknown  aliens.  And  see 
with  what  rejoicing  their  presents  were  received.  He 
and  his  wife,  for  instance,  were  an  old  couple  and  poor; 
he  was  often  sick,  himself.  Yes,  it  was  his  side  that 
troubled  him — and  almost  constantly,  just  here,  a 
growth,  he  didn't  understand  it.  But  one  day,  to 
better  it,  he  had  sat  down  on  the  floor  of  his  teepee, 
had  stripped  himself  to  the  waist  and  taking  out  his 
knife  he  had — removed  the  excrescence.  But  the 
place  had  not  healed  well,  it  always  troubled  him  more 
or  less. 

The  old  handsome  wife,  watching  the  talk,  sighed  a 
little,  her  eyes  solicitously  upon  her  man. 

Well,  to  them  these  gifts  had  come  as  from  above. 
He  was  grateful.  He  would  never  see  the  donors,  he 
was  an  old  man,  he  did  not  know  even  where  they 
lived,  but — he  wanted  to  make  them  a  present.  Not 
knowing  how  to  go  about  doing  so  he  had  brought  it 
to  us.  It  was  not,  he  explained,  an  ordinary  gift  such 
as  Indians  love  to  make  to  each  other,  a  compliment 
which  must  be  returned  by  bestowing  an  equal  gift. 
No,  this  was  a  free  present.  He  made  the  sign  which 
signifies  "Nothing."  "No  return."  We  nodded, 
understanding. 

Then  he  went  down  into  his  clothes,  and  from  some 


38  Teepee  Neighbors 

recess  produced  a  little  bundle  wrapped  in  buckskin. 
Unfolding  it  he  displayed  a  veiy  ancient  flint  and  steel. 
He  looked  at  them  long.  His  wife  looked  at  them. 
They  had  been  his  companions  no  doubt  in  the  dim, 
romantic  days  of  his  youth,  the  nomadic  days  of 
freedom  and  desire.  Now  of  course  he  could  get 
matches,  much  quicker  and  handier, — two  boxes  for  a 
nickel — at  the  trader's.  He  did  not  depend  on  these 
as  he  once  had  done,  but  they  were  old  friends  .  .  . 
He  cradled  them  tenderly  in  his  hand. 

Then  smiling,  and  rising,  he  held  them  out  to  us. 
"For  our  friends,"  he  said.  And  turning  from  us,  his 
wife  at  his  heels,  he  passed  out  into  the  frosty  day. 
In  the  strong  light  of  out-doors  I  noticed  suddenly  that 
both  their  faces  showed  grey  and  pinched. 

I  recollected  at  that  moment  that  I  was  cooking  our 
dinner  and  that  I  should  not  have  let  them  go.  The 
old  man  paused  to  break  off  a  willow  switch  with  which 
to  urge  on  his  dejected  horses.  The  wife  had  climbed 
upon  the  wheel  on  her  way  up  to  the  high  seat  of  their 
lumber  wagon. 

Then  I  ran  after  them.  "Come  back,"  I  called.  "It's 
almost  time  for  dinner.  Don't  go.  Come  back." 

They  came.  There  was  no  veiling  of  their  smiles 
now.  They  were  undisguisedly  glad.  They  stood 
about  the  stove  rubbing  their  old  hands.  They  beamed 
upon  me. 


Teepee  Neighbors  39 

I  spread  a  red  table  cloth  on  the  floor  for  them  and 
set  upon  it  their  dishes.  They  ate  with  a  sort  of  weary 
hunger,  as  though  their  appetite  was  difficult  to 
appease. 

At  last  they  got  up.  He  wiped  his  hands  on  an  old 
bandanna,  she  on  some  rag  of  her  clothes.  They  shook 
us  both  by  the  hand.  Then  he  spoke  again.  "We 
thank  your  wife  because  she  gave  us  something  to  eat. 
We  were  very  hungry.  We  have  had  nothing  but 
coffee  for  nearly  two  days."  He  laughed  a  little,  not 
wishing  to  seem  to  make  too  much  of  the  statement. 
"Now  we  feel  good.  We  are  full.  We  have  nothing 
to  eat  in  our  house,  nothing."  He  dusted  his  fingers 
together,  making  that  sign  which  means :  "All  gone." 
"We  were  just  going  up  to  the  store  to  see  if  they 
would  trust  us  once  more.  After  a  while  when  the 
snow  goes  out  of  the  mountains  I  can  haul  wood  and 
sell  it  at  the  Post,  but  now  there  is  no  way  of  earning 
money.  The  traders  do  not  like  to  trust  us.  We  are 
all  asking  for  credit,  but  what  can  we  do?"  The 
sentence  ended  with  that  balancing  gesture  of  the  hand 
which  denotes  a  question. 

Tenderly  I  took  up  from  the  table  the  little  buckskin 
package.  "You  might  have  raised  some  money  on 
this." 

He  smiled  at  me,  they  both  smiled.  "This  is  for  our 
friends,"  he  said. 


SHADOWS 

THE  GROUND  was  pale  and  barren  with  snow.  In  a 
bend  of  the  river,  on  a  stretch  of  low  meadow  land, 
where  skeleton  willows  rustled  and  shivered,  was 
situated  the  winter  camp  of  the  Indians.  On  the  edge 
of  the  hill  which  formed  the  upper  tier  of  the  shallow 
amphitheatre  surrounding  the  camp,  stood  a  lone  tent. 
It  was  perhaps  an  eighth  of  a  mile  distant  from  the 
main  body  of  the  camp.  In  it  lived  an  old  man  and  his 
blind  wife. 

Each  day  the  never-failing  Wyoming  sun  made 
strange  sport  of  the  grey-white  tents.  In  the  morning 
when  it  stood  in  the  east,  they  seemed  to  bow  in  unison 
over  their  trailing  shadows  which  reached  toward  the 
west;  in  the  afternoon  the  figure  would  be  reversed. 
Over  their  heads,  continuously,  these  strange  and 
stately  dancers  waved  shadow  scarfs,  flirted  and 
agitated  them,  signalled  and  beckoned  with  them. 
These  were  made  of  the  smoke  which  issued  from  the 
projecting  stove-pipes;  evanescent,  etherial.  Day  after 
day  throughout  the  long  winter,  whatever  the  events, 
whatever  the  privation,  whatever  the  painful  patience 
within  the  tents,  outside  this  queer  posturing  went  on. 

The  tent  which  stood  aloof  also  participated  in  the 
figure  dance,  but  with  less  abandon,  with  less  throwing 
of  scarf,  for  the  reason,  indeed,  that  there  came  from 

40 


Teepee  Neighbors  41 

its  stove-pipe  a  smaller  quantity  of  smoke.  Perhaps  this 
was  because  the  old  wife  was  blind.  It  had  been  very 
hard  for  her  man  when,  near  the  time  of  the  birth  of 
her  last  child — like  his  brothers  before  him,  now  long 
since  dead — she  had  lost  her  sight.  It  had  come  sud 
denly,  an  unlooked-for  visitation,  the  falling  of  an  un 
attended  shadow,  which  had  engulfed  even  as  it  de 
scended.  Now  the  old  man  must  needs  do  more  than 
half  her  work.  He  must  fetch  the  water,  split  the 
wood,  which  he  was  obliged  first,  of  course,  to  drive 
up  into  the  hills  to  obtain.  He  must  do  most  of  the 
cooking,  and  besides  he  must  be  continually  watchful 
of  her,  for  she  accepted  her  setting  aside  rebelliously, 
and  constantly  would  be  found  overtaxing  her  powers. 

Twice  in  trying  to  cook  for  him  she  had  burned 
herself  badly.  Several  times  she  had  lost  herself  out 
side  the  tent  and  had  been  brought  back  by  him,  towed 
at  the  end  of  a  horizontally-held  stick,  laughing,  but 
ashamed. 

In  the  morning  from  off  their  bed  she  could  fold 
up  the  blankets  and  in  the  evening  spread  them  out 
again.  She  could  cook  a  little,  not  forgetting  her  scars, 
and  she  could  sew.  When  the  women  came  into  her 
tent  to  visit  her  she  would  sit  by  them  sewing  and 
smiling. 

"Why  do  you  work  when  we  are  here  to  see  you?" 
they  would  say,  and  she,  still  smiling  and  holding 


42  Teepee  Neighbors 

together  with  the  tips  of  her  sensitive  fingers  the  edges 
of  the  seam,  would  answer: 

"Because  you  are  here  to  thread  my  needle  for  me." 

But  necessarily  there  were  many  hours  when  she 
must  needs  sit  idle,  her  strong  hands  in  her  lap,  her 
keen  face  listening.  Sometimes  when  her  man  was 
long  absent  and  the  fire  had  sunk  low,  though  she  had 
replenished  it  with  all  the  wood  he  had  left  inside  for 
her,  she  would  get  up,  a  look  of  adventure  on  her  face, 
and  finding  the  tentflap,  she  would  thrust  it  aside  and 
slip  out  into  the  sunlight.  With  her  eager  hands  she 
would  feel  about  for  more  wood,  for  chips,  anything. 
Once  even,  finding  no  wood  ready,  she  attempted  to 
split  some  with  the  axe.  But  though  she  slashed 
valiantly  the  axehead  always  fell  into  the  snow.  She 
could  never  strike  the  wood  with  it. 

Coming  home  just  then  he  had  laughed  at  her  and 
had  led  her  back  inside  the  tent.  Even  as  he  did  so 
he  felt  that  her  hands  were  icy  and  that  underneath 
her  heavy  blanket  she  shivered  and  shook.  He  meant 
to  be  very  solicitous  of  her,  but  he  was  an  old  man,  he 
liked  his  pipe  and  his  game  of  cards,  he  liked  the  old 
men's  talk  of  other  days — and  he  sometimes  forgot. 

As  for  her,  whether  he  remembered  or  forgot,  her 
face  was  always  animated  with  a  sort  of  fiery  patience 
which  made  it  seem,  old  and  sightless  as  it  undoubtedly 
was,  somehow  young ;  as  though  in  some  recess  of  her 


Teepee  Neighbors  43 

soul  she  were  always  crying  out  to  Life :  "You  can 
beat  me  down,  you  can  filch  from  me  everything  I  have, 
but  on  me,  on  my  true  self,  the  essence  of  my  being, 
you  dare  not  lay  so  much  as  a  finger." 

But  in  the  end,  when  she  came  to  her  last  grim 
grapple  with  Death,  he  won,  or  seemed  to  win. 

On  a  certain  day  those  in  the  main  camp  noticed  the 
old  man  out  catching  and  bringing  in  his  horses,  then 
hitching  them  to  his  wagon,  and  finally,  through  the 
shining  of  the  morning  sun,  while  all  in  one  direction 
the  tents  curtsied  to  their  shadows,  driving,  rattling 
and  clattering,  away. 

There  were  some  who  said  that  she  was  on  the  seat 
beside  him,  again  there  were  others  who  maintained 
that  he  was  alone.  Subsequently  appearances  seemed 
to  show  that  those  latter  ones  were  right,  for  through 
out  the  greater  part  of  the  day  a  thin,  wave  ing  veil  of 
smoke,  accompanied  by  its  agitated  shadow,  showed 
above  and  about  the  solitary  lodge.  The  tent  door 
opened  away  from  the  main  camp,  therefore  even  if 
she  were  there  and  had  come  out  through  it  to  grope 
about  in  the  snow  for  more  fuel  she  would  have  been 
hidden  from  their  sight.  Of  course  she  might  easily 
have  felt  her  way  around  the  corner  of  the  tent  and, 
carefully  avoiding  the  guy  ropes,  have  followed  along 
its  side  to  the  farther  end  and  there,  silhouetted  against 
the  snow,  she  might  have  called  to  them ;  an  eighth  of  a 


44  Teepee  Neighbors 

mile  is  no  great  distance  to  see  or  to  hear . . .  they 
thought  of  all  this  afterwards.  But  this  old  man  and 
his  blind  wife  were  a  couple  who  lived  mainly  to  them 
selves  :  no  doubt  this  was  her  doing,  for  in  spite  of  all 
that  she  had  lost  she  still  clung  fast  to  her  piide,  or 
however  much  of  it  her  long  dependence  had  spared  to 
her.  They  were  not  people  who  very  greatly  encouraged 
visitors ;  she  could  not  minister  to  them  when  they  did 
come,  could  not  cook  for  them  even.  And:  "Better 
hide  what  may  not  be  displayed,"  was,  I  suppose,  the 
thought  in  the  back  of  her  head.  Also  they  were  not 
ones  to  ask  favors. 

The  day  wore  to  its  close.  The  sun  set.  The  shadow 
dance  ended. 

The  next  morning  those  who  said  that  she  had  gone 
with  her  husband  pointed  triumphantly  to  the  lifeless 
tent. 

"You  see,  there  is  no  smoke." 

"Can  it  be  that  he  was  going  to  ask  some  one  of  us 
to  see  her,  but  forgot  to  do  so?"  ventured  a  single 
voice.  "Or  had  he  meant  to  send  some  one  from  an 
other  camp  to  her  ?  I  almost  think  I  shall  go  over  there 
and  see..." 

"No,  no.    She  does  not  like  us  to  intrude." 

"He  did  not  ask  me  to  go  over." 

"Nor  me." 

"Nor  me." 


Teepee  Neighbors  45 

"Well,  we  can  wait  till  tomorrow." 

It  was  growing  cold,  bitterly  cold. 

"If  she  were  there  alone  without  fire  or  food  she 
would  certainly  call  to  us." 

"Of  course,  of  course." 

The  women,  their  shawls  flapping,  swung  their  axes 
stoutly.  The  men  banked  up  the  tents  with  snow. 
Children  shivered  about  the  stoves.  One  young  woman 
who  had  her  first  baby  that  night  came  near  freezing 
to  death,  and  there  was  a  great  to-do  to  keep  the  little 
one  alive  after  it  was  finally  born  into  so  inhospitable 
a  world. 

On  the  second  morning  it  was  still  lifeless  about  the 
solitary  camp. 

By  afternoon  the  weather  grew  a  little  milder.  Then 
the  wind  sprang  up  and  blew  tempestuously,  shaking 
the  frail  tents.  The  children  ventured  out  to  play. 
Their  eyes,  like  the  eyes  of  their  elders,  were  forever 
turning  toward  the  lone  lodge  and  slipping  hastily  away 
again.  The  bravest  of  them  strayed  over  toward  it, 
fled  back,  looked,  and  strayed  yet  again.  About  it 
there  were  but  few  tracks.  The  children  edged  near. 
No  sound  issued  from  within,  no  boiling  of  kettle,  no 
crackling  of  fire,  no  stirring,  no  voice,  nor  were  there 
any  familiar  odors  of  cooking  or  of  wood  smoke.  One 
very  bold  boy  called  her  name  gently,  "Walks  First! 
Walks  First!" 


46  Teepee  Neighbors 

A  great  gust  of  wind  came,  and  wrenched  and 
shook  the  flimsy  tent,  ridge  pole  and  all.  Then  from 
within  there  issued  a  long,  haunting,  creaking  noise, 
unearthly,  disquieting.  Again  and  again  it  sounded, 
diminishing  as  the  violence  of  the  gusts  subsided.  It 
was  for  all  the  world  the  sound  that  a  new  rope 
would  make  drawn  taut  over  a  ridgepole,  straining  and 
groaning  as  a  dead  weight  bore  it  down. 

Spell-bound  the  children  listened,  then,  with  their 
story,  they  fled  back  to  the  camp.  They  retraced 
their  steps,  followed  by  the  women  and  by  one  old 
man.  The  people  stood  outside  the  tent,  they  walked 
about;  there  were  plenty  of  tracks  in  the  snow  now. 
One  or  two  of  the  women  even  called  her  name, 
gently,  as  had  done  the  boy.  But  the  only  answer 
came  when  the  wind  blew  and  shook  the  tent,  ridge 
pole  and  all ;  and  that  weird,  uneasy  grinding,  slow  and 
prolonged,  as  though  a  dead  weight  were  being 
heavily  stirred. 

The  old  man  harangued  the  women:  "Open  the 
tent  flap,"  he  said.  "Don't  be  afraid.  Put  your  hands 
inside  and  untie  the  door  strings.  Go  in." 

But  the  women  folded  their  shawls  about  them  and 
bent  a  little  from  the  wind.  "We  are  afraid,"  they 
faltered. 

And  still  the    old   man    exhorted.     And  the    wind 


Teepee  Neighbors  47 

blew,  and  that  heavy  thing,  which  seemed  to  be 
suspended  within  the  tent,  creaked  and  protested. 

The  sun  dropped  low,  shining  full  on  the  back  of 
the  tent.  A  little  corner  of  the  flap  blew  up,  and  then 
a  strange  blurred  shadow  lay  outlined  beneath  the 
opening,  and  cast  itself,  writhing,  upon  the  snow  at 
their  feet. .. 

You  could  hear  the  hissing  of  the  women's  breath 
as  they  drew  it  in  sharply.  The  old  man  was  struck 
silent.  At  last  he  turned  to  a  boy,  that  one  who  had 
been  the  boldest.  His  old  voice  shook. 

"Get  a  horse,"  he  said.  "Ride  as  fast  as  you  can. 
Tell  her  husband  he  must  come  back." 


CIVILIZATION 

IT  WAS  I  who  brought  the  story  home.  I  had  been 
up  at  the  Agency  for  mail  and  supplies  and  there  I 
had  heard  it.  On  my  return  I  found  at  the  house 
a  young  Indian  of  the  tribe.  I  hastened  to  divest 
myself  of  my  wraps  and  to  go  and  prepare  some  sup 
per  for  all  of  us.  When  it  was  ready  we  sat  down 
at  the  table.  Then,  with  chuckles  of  unrighteous 
mirth,  I  told  it. 

At  a  "condemned  sale"  at  the  Post,  a  Mexican 
half-breed  had,  it  seemed,  bought  a  horse,  but  one 
which,  sleek  with  Government  care  and  full  of  Govern 
ment  oats,  appeared  mendaciously  well.  The  man  was 
said  to  have  given  less  than  ten  dollars  for  it.  Then 
for  a  few  days  he  had  ridden  it,  saddled  sumptuously, 
around  the  Agency,  till  the  covetous  eyes  of  all  the 
loafers  about  the  store  and  offices  knew  it  well. 
Noticing  one  old  Indian  of  known  possessions  whose 
eyes  seemed  to  rest  with  special  intensity  of  longing 
upon  his  horse,  the  Mexican  had  approached  him, 
making  a  tentative  offer  of  trade.  The  result  was  that 
he  had  taken  his  old  well-appearing  horse  to  the  man's 
ranch — he  first  frugally  removed  his  saddle  and  bridle 
— and  had  walked  back  without  it,  driving  before  him 
a  young  cow  and  her  calf,  the  worth  of  which  must 
have  been  five  times  or  more  that  of  the  horse  for 
which  he  had  exchanged  them. 

48 


Teepee  Neighbors  49 

My  story  done,  I  laughed  with  unhallowed  glee,  and 
my  husband,  equally  depraved,  laughed  also.  Of 
course  it  was  a  contemptible  thing  to  have  done,  but  it 
was  cute  to  have  so  cleverly  overreached  the  dull  old 
man.  One  considered  the  slow  witted  Mexican,  the 
slower  witted  Indian ;  yes,  it  was  funny .  .  . 

I  raised  my  eyes,  and  met  the  stormy  ones  of  my 
guest.  He  was  frowning  heavily.  His  gaze  was  on 
his  food,  on  the  room,  but  not  on  us. 

A  troubled  silence  fell.  Having  seen  the  lack  of 
sympathy  in  his  face,  we  both  became  quiet. 

Then  he  spoke.  "That  was  a  regular  white  man's 
trick,"  he  said. 


"BY  ANY  OTHER  NAME" 

THE  SICK  child  lay  in  the  center  of  the  room,  propped 
high  with  pillows.  She  was  turned  so  that  she  faced 
the  window,  and  the  west;  the  oblique  rays  of  the  set 
ting  sun  shone  directly  into  her  eyes,  already  glazing. 
Her  bed  which  was  raised  but  little  from  the  ground, 
was  composed  of  quilts,  smeared,  discolored,  stale. 
Her  long  narrow  pillows  were  stuffed  to  solidity,  likely 
enough  with  the  down  of  cat- tails,  and  covered  with 
calico  of  colors  sombre  or  vivid.  They  lifted  her  so 
high  that  she  was  almost  in  a  sitting  posture.  Her 
hands,  bent  like  bird's  claws,  sprawled  upon  the  bed. 
Her  matted  hair  was  still  more  or  less  restrained  in 
tight,  dusty  braids,  doubtless  plaited  before  her  illness. 
Because  she  had  been  sick  but  three  days,  her  arms 
and  face — all  that  was  visible  of  her  above  the  covers — 
were  not  so  very  much  wasted ;  but  her  eyes  were  heavy 
and  dull,  her  lips  parted  to  receive  the  gasping  breath, 
her  nostrils  strangely  chiselled  and  distended. 

The  white  doctor  pottered  about  her,  breathing 
audibly.  He  was  an  oldish  man,  and  stout.  In  the 
absence  of  the  Agency  physician  he  had  been  called  in 
from  the  nearby  town.  This  was  almost  his  first  exper 
ience  of  huddled,  crowded,  unsanitary  cabins,  of  ground 
made  beds,  of  dying  children  but  lately  relinquished 
from  the  hands  of  the  medicine  men. 

50 


Teepee  Neighbors  51 

The  Government  field-matron,  a  big,  kindly,  untidy 
woman,  stood  by  the  little  window,  arranging  and  re 
arranging  the  row  of  bottles  given  to  her  care  by  the 
doctor.  The  space  of  the  window-sill  being  the  only 
available  shelf  in  sight,  she  had  placed  her  vials  there. 

From  time  to  time  the  doctor  rose,  bent  down  again ; 
breathed,  muttered. 

By  the  stove  the  child's  mother,  a  gaunt  unhappy 
looking  woman,  imperturbably  turned  over  the  fried 
bread  in  the  boiling  grease.  She  wore  the  look  of  one 
who  had  already  relinquished  hope;  who,  because  her 
hold  on  life  still  trammelled  her,  went  ever  stolidly  on 
with  her  petty  tasks ;  as  would  go  a  prisoner,  or  one 
caught  in  the  ceaseless  iteration  of  a  tread-mill.  She 
looked  at  you — when  indeed  she  troubled  to  notice  you 
at  all — with  the  eyes  of  a  fatalist. 

About  the  room,  in  corners,  on  low  beds,  stood  or 
sat  people,  Indians,  many  of  them;  old,  young;  even 
among  them  the  superseded  medicine  woman.  All 
were  silent,  all  patient,  all  watchful,  all  resigned. 

The  doctor  puffed  and  grunted  as  he  moved  and  bent, 
his  heavy  slow  breathing  almost  covering  the  sound  of 
the  child's,  which  was  light  and  shallow  and  fearfully 
rapid. 

The  rays  of  the  sinking  sun  penetrated  the  dingy 
panes  of  the  window  and  shimmered  in  the  fading  eyes. 

"Can't  you  hang  something  across  that  window?" 


52  Teepee  Neighbors 

said  the  doctor.  "Or,  better,  give  me  a  hand  here  and 
we'll  turn  this  whole  contraption  around." 

The  doctor  seized  one  end  of  the  bed,  the  field-matron 
the  other.  An  old  man  strode  forward,  empty  pipe 
held  in  one  skinny  hand — on  his  arrival  the  doctor  had 
at  once  caused  the  smoking  in  the  house  to  cease.  He 
laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  the  pillows  of  the  child's 
bed;  with  the  other,  the  one  that  held  the  pipe,  he 
motioned  toward  the  sun.  He  spoke ;  but  few  only  of 
his  words  were  intelligible  to  the  doctor.  There  existed 
an  abyss  of  black  misunderstanding  between  this  phy 
sician  and  his  patient's  people,  and  few  common  words 
had  they  with  which  to  span  it. 

It  was  clear  that  the  old  man  objected  to  the  moving 
of  the  bed. 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  field-matron,  the  field- 
matron  at  the  doctor.  Then  the  doctor  turning  to  the 
old  man  pointed  to  the  sun,  then  to  the  child,  then  laid 
a  hand  upon  his  eyes.  , 

In  answer  the  old  man  made  a  sharp  gesture  of  nega 
tion.  Apparently  there  was  some  connection  other  than 
material  between  the  dying  sun  and  the  dying  child; 
some  potency,  some  desirable  "medicine." 

The  cabin  wras  full  of  the  smell  of  ground-dwelling 
humanity,  of  the  ground  itself  in  the  shape  of  the  earth 
en  floor,  of  the  boiling  grease  and  the  frying  bread. 

The  doctor,  breathing  stertorously,  bent  low  above 


Teepee  Neighbors  53 

the  child.  He  took  into  his  grasp  one  of  her  limp  arms ; 
his  fingers  touching,  groping  at  the  wrist. 

"The  whiskey,  Miss  Haines." 

The  field-matron  seized  from-  her  shelf  a  spoon  and 
a  little  bottle  labelled  "Whiskey,"  and  extended  them 
to  the  kneeling  man. 

But  again  the  old  man  with  the  empty  pipe  strode 
forward.  He  looked  upon  the  bottle  disapprovingly; 
again  his  old  hands  fashioned  a  fierce  negative  gesture. 

"What  the  devil — ?"  began  the  doctor. 

The  old  man  signalled  to  a  young  fellow  standing 
back  against  the  door.  In  the  Indian  tongue  he  spoke  to 
him  and  with  great  brevity.  Then  the  young  man  in 
terpreted,  enunciating  with  bashful  faintness. 

"My  father  he  say  that  stuff  no  good.  On  that  bot 
tle  that  say  'Whiskey/  Whiskey  that  somethin'  makes 
men  crazy.  That  no  good  for  that  little  girl.  She  sick. 
You  a  doctor  you  ought  to  know  that,  he  say." 

The  doctor,  still  kneeling,  listened,  his  eyes  imperturb 
able  ;  only  his  mouth  twitched  just  a  little. 

"He  don't  want  me  to  give  her  this  whiskey  even  if 
I  think  she  needs  it?" 

The  old  man,  watching,  waved  his  hand  contempt 
uously  toward  the  stove  whereon  dinner  was  cooking. 
He  spoke. 

"You  might  just  as  well  give  her  coffee,"  the  young 


54  Teepee  Neighbors 

man  interpreted.  "That  what  he  say.  Medicine  that 
what  she  want.  Give  her  medicine." 

"I  see."  With  a  grunt  the  doctor  heaved  himself  to 
his  feet.  "I'll  go  outside  and  fix  up  some  medicine. 
I'll — I'll  throw  this  whiskey  away/' 

The  old  man  slipped  back  to  his  place,  muttering 
gutturally. 

The  doctor,  making  a  way  for  himself  through  the 
group  of  people  about  the  door,  left  the  room. 

In  a  few  moments  he  returned  carrying  con 
spicuously  in  his  hand  a  larger  bottle  containing  a  small 
amount  of  amber-colored  fluid.  On  its  label  was  pen 
cilled  in  large  plain  letters :  Medicine. 

The  doctor  knelt  again.  Carefully,  with  the  tip  of 
a  spoon  inserted  between  the  parted  lips,  he  gave  the 
child  of  the  "medicine." 

His  eyes,  very  solemn,  were  lifted  to  the  face  of  the 
field-matron,  bending  above  him  and  above  the  child. 
Her  answering  eyes  were  equally  solemn. 

He  spoke,  but  softly  in  that  hushed  room.  "It  isn't 
as  though  you  could  change  a  good  thing  by  merely 
changing  its  environment,"  he  said.  "A  lesson  in 
philosophy,  Miss  Haines;  a  valuable  lesson  in  philos 
ophy.  Er — are  you  keeping  something  hot  at  the 
feet?" 


AN  INDIAN  VICTORY 

THE  BABY  was  sick  and  that  was  the  reason  I  had  not 
paid  much  attention  to  Damon  the  first  time  he  came 
that  afternoon.  Saturdays  they  let  out  the  boys  from 
the  Government  Indian  boarding  school  at  one  o'clock, 
and  he  had  come  down  on  foot  to  borrow  my  pony. 
He  and  I  had  taken  to  sharing  the  pony  since  the  baby 
had  interfered  with  my  horse-back  days.  He  came  in 
with  a  smile  on  his  nice  boy's  face,  and  asked  where 
my  saddle  was.  Then  I  forgot  all  about  him  in  the 
baby's  troubles.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  near  four 
o'clock  when  he  got  back  again.  It  was  May,  but  chilly 
yet ;  at  any  rate,  on  the  baby's  account,  I  was  keeping 
a  fire  in  the  living-room  stove.  I  remember  that  Damon 
entered  without  knocking — that's  the  Indian  way — and 
slumped  down  into  a  chair  behind  the  stove.  The 
baby's  attack  seemed  to  be  over ;  he  was  nearly  asleep. 
I  sat  on  the  sofa  jiggling  his  carriage.  I  was  still  wip- 
ping  an  occasional  tear  from  my  own  eyes,  and  the 
baby,  poor  lamb,  every  now  and  again  shook  all  over 
with  sobs. 

For  a  long  time  the  boy  sat  quiet,  but  after  a  while 
I  heard  little  broken  sounds  coming  from  behind  the 
stove,  and  snuffles.  I  made  haste  to  emerge  from 
the  gloom  into  which  the  afternoon  had  cast  me. 

"Why,  Damon.  Why  boy!  What  on  earth  is  the 
matter?" 

55 


56  Teepee  Neighbors 

Had  I  been  Indian  I  should  never  have  been  so  rude 
as  to  ask  a  direct  question,  but — well,  it  took  him  a  long 
time  to  answer  it.  He,  at  least,  was  Indian  enough. 
At  last  he  got  it  out. 

"Elk  wouldn't  sign  for  me." 

"You  mean  to  say  you  went  way  down  to  Goes-in- 
Lodge's,  where  Elk  is  staying,  and  that  he  wouldn't 
sign  your  Carlisle  paper,  though  he  promised  you  to 
do  it  today?" 

"Yes,  ma'am',"  said  Damon,  and  snuffled  again. 

"But  I  don't  understand  at  all  why  he  wouldn't.  He 
has  always  seemed  willing  enough  for  Mr.  Knight, 
when  he  goes  East  next  week,  to  take  you  with  the 
other  children.  Why,  boy,  what  on  earth  can  you  do 
now?  Elk's  surely  the  one  who  ought  to  sign  for  you. 
Why  do  you  think  he  went  back  on  you?" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  At  last  Damon  managed : 
"John  Pine,  he  died —  Then  he  stuck  again. 

Conversation  between  the  naturally  reticent  Indian 
and  the  as  naturally  loquacious  white  man  is  very  likely 
to  impress  one  as  does  an  overheard  telephone  talk; 
one  man  apparently  doing  all  the  work. 

"Oh,  John  Pine's  dead,"  said  I.  "Well,  I  knew  he 
was  going  to  die  before  long,  of  course.  He  came 
back  about  Christmas  time,  wasn't  it,  from  that  Kan 
sas  school,  and  with  consumption?  And  now  he's 
dead.  So  your  uncle — 


Teepee  Neighbors  57 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Elk,  he  got  scared,  and  he  said  what 
did  I  want  to  go  off  so  far  for,  and  couldn't  I  learn 
enough  at  this  here  school." 

"And  then  what  did  you  say  ?"  I  didn't  want  him  to 
run  down  till  I  had  got  it  all  out  of  him. 

"I  just  kept  sayin' :  I  want  to  go  to  Carlisle,  I  want 
to  go  to  Carlisle." 

"Well,  there's  Hubert.  He's  a  kind  of  an  uncle  to 
you,  too.  He's  been  off  at  school.  Maybe  he  could 
sign  for  you.  Did  you  try  him?" 

"He  was  to  Goes-in  Lodge's  too.  But  he  just  talked 
mean  to  me.  He  said,  why  did  I  want  to  go  and  try  to 
learn  to  be  a  white  man?  He  said  I'd  forget  how  to 
talk  Indian,  and  I'd  come  back  and  marry  one  of  them 
half-breed  girls.  And  'look  at  the  ones  that's  come 
back,'  he  said,  'can  they  earn  any  more  money  than  us 
fellows  here?  They  ain't  white  and  they  ain't  Indian. 
You  better  stay  here,'  he  said,  'and  this  summer  I'll 
take  you  out  on  my  ranch  with  me,  and  maybe  in  the 
fall  me  and  you'll  have  a  little  huntin'  trip  back  of 
Black  Mountain.'  " 

"And  what  did  you  say  to  that,  boy  ?" 

"Just  the  same  thing.  I  kept  sayin' :  'I  want  to  go  to 
Carlisle.  I  want  to  go  to  Carlisle.  There  ain't  never 
been  one  of  us  Northern  Arapahoes  graduate  from 
Carlisle,  and  I  want  to  be  the  first  one,'  I  said." 


58  Teepee  Neighbors 

''Well,  Damon,  there's  your  mother.  Do  you  think 
anyway  she  could  be  made  to  do  it?" 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Damon,  and  again  he  snuffled. 

"She's  old,"  said  I,  "and,  being  blind  that  way,  it 
surely  would  be  hard  to  make  her  understand.  She'd 
just  hate  to  have  you  go  so  far.  To  her  it  would  be 
like  sending  you  off  to  the  moon.  And  she  couldn't 
realize  where  the  advantage  to  you  would  be.  Let  me 
see,  you  must  have  other  relatives,  plenty  of  them,  who 
could  sign  that  paper." 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Damon  again.  "Can't  nobody 
sign  for  me  but  just  Elk  or  my  mother.  That's  what 
the  agent  told  Mr.  Knight." 

"But  last  year  anybody  could  sign  for  the  ones  who 
went.  You  know  what  a  time  your  own  cousin, 
Tabitha,  had.  Elk  wouldn't  give  his  consent  to  her 
going  to  Carlisle,  and  she  got  just  a  young  man,  a 
cousin,  to  sign  for  her,  and  she  went  anyhow." 

"Yes,  ma'am."  said  Damon  dolefully. 

He  was  young,  but  when  you  live  on  an  Indian  res 
ervation  you  get  your  eyes  open  early  to  a  good  deal 
of  pretty  obvious  irony.  Last  year,  to  further  the 
interests  of  an  employee  who  wished  to  travel  East 
in  charge  of  the  children,  and  so  at  the  Government's 
expense,  the  regulation  requiring  actual  parents  or 
guardians  to  sign  their  consent  for  the  child  to  go  away 
from  the  reservation  to  school  had  been  waived.  This 


Teepee  Neighbors  59 

year,  however,  when  a  lesser  govermental  light  was 
desirous  of  taking  the  children  East,  the  observance 
of  the  ruling  on  the  question  was  being  more  strictly 
adhered  to. 

Poor  boy  of  fourteen!  Vaguely,  in  his  groping 
child's  heart,  he  craved  a  little  more  education  than 
the  reservation  school  could  offer,  and  he  was  fired 
also  with  a  dim  desire  to  see  something  of  the  outside 
world  in  this  his  one  and  only  chance,  living  as  he  did 
in  so  remote  a  part  of  the  country.  Poor  youngster! 
To  be  forced  thus  to  fight  for  the  chance  a  good 
government  had  meant  to  place  within  his  easy  reach, 
— on  the  one  hand  the  indifference  of  self-seeking 
whites,  and  on  the  other  the  ignorance  and  stubborn 
ness  of  his  own  purblind  people.  I  wondered  how,  at 
fourteen,  my  boy,  there  in  the  cradle,  would  face  a 
similar  situation. 

We  seemed  to  be  in  a  cul-de-sac,  which  is  the  French 
for  box-canon,  a  horrid  place  in  which  to  find  yourself 
when  all  your  desire  is  to  be  at  the  other  side  of  the 
end  wall  of  it. 

Well,  there  I  was  in  my  box-canon,  off  the  trail,  no 
suggestions  to  offer.  I  told  Damon  to  keep  my  pony 
all  night  and  to  come  back  tomorrow ;  and  in  the 
meantime  to  tell  Mr.  Knight,  the  lesser  light,  and  the 
boy's  good  friend,  all  his  difficulties.  Perhaps,  among 


60  Teepee  Neighbors 

us  all,  we  might  be  able  to  find  some  way  out  of  the 
dilemma. 

In  the  morning  I  saw  a  buggy  drive  through  the 
ranch  gate.  The  sun  was  shining,  the  baby  smiling 
again.  I  remember  I  was  just  doing  the  dishes. 

"Oh!  leave  your  dishes  and  come  along.  We're 
going  over  to  Wind  River,  to  get  Damon's  mother  to 
sign  this  paper  if  we  can.  This  boy's  just  got  to  go  to 
Carlisle,  and  we'll  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  get  him 
there." 

So  I  bundled  up  the  baby  and  put  on  my  linen  duster 
and  threw  my  heavy  coat  under  the  back  seat.  That's 
the  way  it  is  in  Wyoming;  the  dust  is  always  with  us, 
and  the  cold  generally.  So  we  go  prepared  for  any 
thing. 

The  river  was  high,  but  we  got  through  it  all  right. 
Government  horses  are  big  and  strong.  We  turned 
north  across  "Dobe  Flat,"  then  a  little  eastward  up 
the  long  divide  between  the  two  rivers.  We  always  call 
it  five  miles  to  the  summit ;  it's  all  of  that,  a  long,  heavy, 
gradual  grade.  At  the  top  Mr.  Knight  pulled  up  the 
team  to  let  them  breathe,  and  we  all  turned  back  to 
look  at  the  country  behind  us,  the  big  sunny  valley 
sloping  up  to  the  foothill^  and  lined  with  little  brush- 
bordered  creeks,  each  one  tracing  its  tortuous  way  back 
to  its  own  cleft  canon.  Beyond  we  saw  the  mountains, 


Teepee  Neighbors  61 

delicate,  graceful,  snow-sprinkled,  and  outlining  the 
whole  west  of  the  world. 

We  stood  there  at  the  summit,  the  hill  falling  away 
from  us  both  ways.  You  could  hear  the  wind  singing 
away  off ;  you  always  can  on  the  plains,  no  matter  how 
still  it  is.  There  were  a  few  cactus  plants  growing  near 
us,  and  they  were  in  bloom.  The  sage  smelled  good, 
that  clean,  primeval  smell  that  takes  you  back  to  the 
beginning  of  all  camping,  of  all  life.  Everything  was 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  and,  most  of  all,  those  mountains, 
so  many  of  them,  in  such  a  wide,  powerful  line. 

We  started  at  a  good  clip  down  the  other  slope.  The 
road  wound  through  red,  sage-covered,  rolling  country  ; 
down  there,  miles  ahead  of  us,  we  could  see  the  big 
river,  marked  by  a  wide  band  of  cottonwoods. 

The  country  through  which  we  were  passing,  though 
looking  most  accessible,  was  in  reality  so  completely 
the  reverse  that  you  couldn't  help  admiring  the  clever 
way  the  road  nosed  its  passage  between  the  little  hills, 
down  gulches  and  draws,  along  hogbacks,  finding  out 
and  following  the  only  possible  ways. 

At  last  we  were  nearly  down.  We  passed  through 
a  narrow  draw,  all  pinkish-red  sand,  very  hard  and 
ancient  looking.  There  the  sage  grew  as  high  as  your 
eyes  as  you  sit  a  horse.  It  looked  gnarled,  misformed, 
and  old,  as  though  it  had  been  the  very  first  thing  of 
its  kingdom  created  of  God.  As  we  came  down  that 


62  Teepee  Neighbors 

sand-draw  I  turned  my  head  to  the  left  and  hugged 
the  baby  close.  You  can't  see  it  from  the  road,  but  just 
a  little  way  back  from  it  there's  a  box- canon,  red  and 
sandy  and  sage-covered,  where  the  people  over  here 
on  the  river  bury  their  dead.  I  have  heard  them  up 
there  "crying"  at  twilight,  the  age-old  lament  of  grief. 

At  last  we  got  to  the  river.  Elk's  camp  stood  right 
at  the  edge  of  the  tall  timber,  within  sound  of  the  roar, 
if  not  quite  within  sight  of  the  water.  There  stood 
three  cabins,  set  at  irregular  angles,  the  most  primitive 
form  of  human-built  house ;  rough,  dusty  logs,  the  ends 
not  so  much  as  sawed  off  even,  chinked  with  red  mud, 
dirt  roofs  and  floors,  crooked  door  and  window  frames 
of  hewn  logs.  There  also  stood  at  one  side  a  tall  teepee, 
graceful  and  free,  compared  to  its  squat  house  neigh 
bors. 

By  the  side  of  one  of  the  houses  a  post  was  driven 
into  the  ground,  and  sitting  in  the  dirt,  facing  it,  was 
a  woman.  Her  hands  held  the  two  ends  of  a  wet  cow 
hide,  scraped  of  its  hair,  and  which,  to  soften,  she  kept 
pulling  back  and  forth  around  the  stake.  At  the 
sound  of  the  buggy  she  turned  her  face  toward  us, 
listening  expectantly.  We  tied  the  team  to  the  fence 
and  all  went  over  to  her.  Mr.  Knight  shook  hands 
with  her. 

"How!    Blind  Woman." 

I  did  likewise.     "How!     How!     Blind  Woman." 


Teepee  Neighbors  63 

It  never  seemed  to  me  either  polite  or  considerate  to 
call  her  that.  But  that  was  her  name.  We  all  used  it. 

Damon  hung  back. 

"You'll  have  to  interpret  for  us,"  said  Mr.  Knight 
to  him.  "There's  no  one  else." 

The  boy  came  forward  bashfully  and  stood  in  the 
sunshine  by  his  blind  mother.  She  let  the  hide  slip 
from  her  hands.  The  ends  lay  touching  her  feet,  within 
reach.  She  lifted  her  face  to  us,  her  blind  face,  which 
wore,  as  do  the  faces  of  so  many  of  the  Indians,  a  look 
of  child-like  sweetness  and  agelong  patience. 

Mr.  Knight  explained.  Damon  interpreted.  I  sat 
on.  somebody's  saddle,  which  lay  on  the  ground,  holding 
my  baby. 

"Six  days  to  get  there?" 

"Yes." 

"And  for  five  years?" 

"Yes." 

The  light  faded  from  the  blind  face. 

"My  husband  is  dead,"  said  the  woman.  "I  have 
but  two  sons.  The  other  one,  as  you  know,  is  sick. 
Five  years !" 

Damon  interpreted  on.  Then  a  slow  tear  stole  down 
the  old  woman's  face,  and  another.  She  wiped  them 
away  with  the  palms  of  her  hands.  Tears  ran  down 
the  boy's  face  also.  A  sudden  sob  shook  him.  They 
spoke  quietly  to  each  other;  scantily. 


64  Teepee  Neighbors 

At  last  Damon  said:  "She  says  to  give  her  the 
paper,  she  will  make  her  mark." 

Mr.  Knight  handed  it  to  her.  He  guided  her  hand. 
He  and  I  witnessed  the  crude  signature.  Then  we 
went  down  to  the  river  bank  to  eat  our  lunch,  leaving 
the  mother  and  son  together.  I  felt  somehow  as 
though  I  could  not  let  the  baby  out  of  my  arms. 

On  our  way  home  we  were  all  inclined  to  be  quiet. 
The  hills  were  glorious  in  the  afternoon  light,  long 
shadows  pointed  back  from  the  mountains — it  was  all 
so  world-wide,  so  everlasting  looking.  It  made  you  feel 
the  way  reading  some  parts  of  the  Old  Testament  does, 
as  though  suddenly,  mysteriously,  you  were  in  touch 
with  the  things  that  transcend  time  and  space. 


THE  PASSING  OF  FELIX  RUNS 
BEHIND 

I  DROVE  two  miles  down  the  river  to  the  ford  we  use  in 
summer.  It  looked  solid  enough  now,  but  snow  lay  in 
an  undisturbed  sheet  over  the  ice.  I  urged  my  horse 
down  close  to  the  edge  but  stopped  him  there.  I  was 
afraid  to  venture  on  it.  Last  night  there  had  been  the 
first  great  freeze  of  the  winter.  The  ice  was  so  new,  I 
quailed.  But  the  cold  was  bitter.  It  gripped  me.  My 
feet  ached.  I  remember  I  moved  them  awkwardly 
under  the  covers,  hoping  to  quicken  them  a  little.  Then 
I  fumbled  with  the  lines.  I  even  spoke  to  the  horse, 
starting  him  forward,  straight  for  the  ice.  But  after 
all  my  heart  failed  me  and  I  turned  him  short  about 
and  made  him  follow  his  own  track  back  up  the  river. 
His  trail  was  the  only  one  in  all  that  vast  waste  of 
snow. 

The  old  horse  went  stiffly.  I  drove  him  to  an  up 
per  ford.  Here  the  water  showed,  running  between 
rocks  and  the  ice  that  clung  to  their  edges.  At  least 
here  there  was  some  sound  of  water  moving,  not  the 
deathlike  stillness  of  the  lower  country.  A  hot  spring 
above  this  upper  ford  kept  the  river  "open"  through 
the  bitterest  weather.  I  drove  into  the  water.  The 
little  buggy  crashed  down  oft  the  edge  of  the  ice  into 
the  current  and  rocked  over  the  stones  of  the  bottom. 

65 


66  Teepee  Neighbors 

Then  it  wrenched  up  over  the  ice  along  the  other  bank, 
creaking  and  straining.  Again,  I  headed  the  horse 
down  the  river,  we  broke  through  fresh  snow,  our 
slender  track  making  a  faint  line  of  bluish  shadow  on 
the  virgin  whiteness. 

Saddle  Blanket's  camp  lay  a  mile  or  more  below  us 
in  the  valley.  A  clump  of  bare  and  ragged  cotton- 
woods  stood  over  it.  There  were  three  squat,  careless 
cabins,  huddled  together;  there  was  a  corral  protecting 
a  diminutive  hay  stack ;  there  stood  also  an  old  wagon 
and  a  mowing  machine.  Smoke  was  pouring  from  a 
stove  pipe  which  protruded  at  a  crazy  angle  from  one 
of  the  roofs. 

Clumsily  I  freed  myself  from  the  blankets  and  let 
myself  down  to  the  ground.  Cautiously,  with  stiff 
fingers,  I  tied  the  horse  to  one  of  the  rear  wheels  of 
the  wagon.  His  breath  steamed  in  a  cloud  about  me. 
In  the  extreme  cold  everything  creaked  uneasily. 
Here,  at  least,  though,  were  tracks  in  the  snow,  moc 
casin  tracks,  dog  tracks.  In  a  tiny  teepee  made  of 
gunny  sacks  and  rags,  a  mother  dog  whined  miserably 
amidst  her  blind  litter. 

I  stepped  over  the  complaining  snow  and  knocked  at 
the  home-built  door  of  the  house  from  which  came  the 
smoke — I  have  never  been  able  to  accustom  myself 
to  the  Indian  way  of  entering  without  announcement. 
A  voice  from  within  called  out  something  to  me.  I 


Teepee  Neighbors  67 

turned  the  handle,  pushed  the  door,  but  finally  had  to 
force  it  with  my  knee  before  I  managed  to  open  it. 

"How  !"  They  cried  at  sight  of  me.  "How  !  How !" 
They  used  my  Indian  name  as  they  spoke  to  me.  At 
least  it  was  warm  within.  A  woman  slapped  back  a 
couple  of  half  grown  dogs  from  before  the  little  sheet- 
iron  stove  and  made  a  place  for  me.  With  my  teeth 
I  pulled  off  my  gloves  and  held  my  aching  fingers 
above  the  warmth.  I  stamped  my  feet,  clumsy  in 
arctics,  upon  the  dirt  floor. 

It  seemed  very  dim  in  the  cabin  after  the  glare  with 
out.  I  looked  about  puzzling  out  the  faces.  There 
were  a  lot  of  people  there,  old  ones  mostly.  They  sat 
on  the  floor  along  the  walls,  smoking,  and  talking  in 
low  voices,  the  accent  guttural,  the  words  to  me  in 
comprehensible.  But  it  was  easy  enough  to  find  the 
sick  man,  the  one  I  had  come  to  see.  He  was  stretched 
on  a  bed  in  the  corner  away  from  the  door,  on  an  iron 
bed  which  had,  in  all  probability,  been  condemned  and 
thrown  out  upon  the  dump  behind  the  Government 
school.  It  was  mended  and  propped  with  boards  from 
some  store  packing-box.  He  lay  back,  supported  by 
pillows  and  blankets,  a  veritable  death's  head,  but  alive, 
looking,  knowing,  suffering,  speaking  even.  He  was 
quite  horrible.  By  the  foot  of  the  bed,  in  the  dirt,  sat 
his  mother,  a  blind  woman.  Except  indeed  the  sick 


68  Teepee  Neighbors 

man,  I  saw  no  one  in  all  the  roomful  who  knew  English 
and  so  could  interpret  for  me. 

When  the  pain  in  my  hands  left  me  free  to  think, 
I  stepped  over  the  ubiquitous  puppies  to  the  bed  and 
reached  for  his  hand,  the  hot  nerveless  thing  of  bones 
he  held  out  to  me. 

"I  heard  only  yesterday  that  you  were  so  sick, 
Felix—" 

"I  can't  hear,"  he  croaked  to  me.  His  eyes  devoured 
me. 

I  repeated  my  words  in  a  louder  voice. 

When  they  turn  deaf  that  way  it  is  near  the  end.  I 
have  seen  enough  of  consumption  to  know  that.  He 
indeed  was  at  the  very  end;  one  look  at  him,  one 
breath  of  the  tainted  air,  told  you  that.  There  was  red 
paint  on  his  cheeks,  on  his  forehead,  "medicine"  paint, 
sacred.  He  was  anointed  for  his  passing. 

''Can  you  think  of  anything  I  might  do  for  you?" 

The  low  Indian  voices  had  ceased.  It  was  hard  to 
speak  so  loud  in  that  still  place.  You  felt  Death  wait 
ing,  sinister,  implacable,  just  outside  the  home-built 
door. 

"I'm  hungry!"  rasped  that  dreadful  voice.  "I'm 
hungry !"  The  skeleton  hands  repeated  the  words  in 
the  Indian  sign-language;  the  whole  body  said  it,  the 
eyes  burned  it  into  me. 

"I'll  go  home,"  I  cried,  "and  bring  you  something  to 


Teepee  Neighbors  69 

eat."  My  heart  was  full  of  a  sort  of  joy  that  I  had 
found  one  definite  thing  to  fix  on,  to  do  for  him. 
"What  shall  I  bring  you,  Felix?" 

"Meat,"  he  said,  "meat.  You  cook  it,  in  the  oven, 
and  no  salt;  will  you?" 

"And  oranges,"  I  said,  "and  bread,  shall  I  bring 
you  them?" 

"No,"  he  croaked  again.  "Meat,  just  meat,  I'm 
hungry." 

A  lean  woman  sitting  against  the  opposite  wall, 
spoke  to  him,  said  something  in  a  loud  voice.  He 
turned  his  death's-head  toward  her  so  that  he  might  the 
better  hear. 

"She  says  bring  the  bread  and  the  oranges,"  he  got 
out,  hoarsely.  Then  he  coughed  and  let  his  head  fall 
back  upon  the  pillows. 

I  looked  at  the  hungry  greedy  eyes  of  the  lean 
woman.  I  knew  her  well  for  a  "medicine"  woman,  the 
keeper  of  the  Sacred  Pipe,  an  adherent  of  the  old 
heathen  ways.  She  had  children  by  her  as  she  sat,  a 
little  ragged  girl  and  dirty  boy.  I  saw  their  worn  moc 
casins  and  matted  hair,  their  eager  eyes  and  pinched 
faces.  I  saw  indeed  the  greediness  of  her  look  but  also 
I  saw  in  her  that  most  miserable  thing,  a  mother  of 
hungry  children. 

"I  will  bring  them,"  I  said.  I  spoke  to  her  with  the 
signs  of  the  Indian  "hand  talk." 


7O  Teepee  Neighbors 

I  stood  with  my  hand  resting  on  the  iron  of  the 
bed's  foot,  waiting  for  Felix  to  revive  and  speak  to  me 
again.  After  a  little,  without  lifting  his  head,  he  asked, 
in  Indian,  for  something.  An  old  woman,  taking  a  short, 
black  stone  pipe  from  her  mouth,  got  up  and  brought 
him  water  in  a  tin  cup.  He  drank  noisily,  the  cup 
shaking  in  his  hand.  When  the  old  woman  had  sat 
down  again,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  turned  his  face 
towards  me. 

"Felix,"  I  said,  "would  you  be  willing  to  let  me  bring 
you  the  doctor?  There  is  a  kind  young  doctor  at  the 
Post  now.  I  think  he  could  give  you  something  so 
that  you  would  not  suffer  so  much.  May  I  bring  him?" 

His  face  brightened.  He  made  as  if  to  acquiesce,  but 
half  a  dozen  voices  from  the  other  side  of  the  room 
cried  him  down.  He  heard  them  but  could  not,  I  sup 
pose,  distinguish  the  words.  Then  the  lean  woman  got 
to  her  feet  suddenly  and  said  something  angrily,  and 
apparently  to  me. 

He  smiled  up  at  me  deprecatingly.  "She  says  no," 
he  said.  "She's  curing  me  herself.  When  I  get  so  I 
can  walk  then  I'll  go  up  to  the  Post  with  you  and  see 
that  doctor." 

I  smiled  back  at  him  some  way,  what  else  could  I 
do?  "Very  well,"  I  said,  "We'll  leave  it  that  way." 

I  saw  it  all,  of  course.  A  free  doctor  who  helped 
might  be  a  menace  to  the  prestige  of  a  medicine  woman 


Teepee  Neighbors  71 

demanding  pay  and  who — well,  didn't  help.  I  under 
stood  something  of  the  situation  in  which  this  blind 
woman  and  her  dying  son  were  placed.  There  had 
been  trouble  recently  between  them  and  Elk  with 
whom  they  habitually  lived.  Elk,  their  relative,  was 
a  hard,  imperious  man,  and  had,  so  it  was  said  in  the 
camps,  turned  them  both  out  of  his  home.  They  had 
then  been  forced  to  take  refuge  where  they  could,  at 
least  during  the  bitter  winter  time;  and  it  was,  of 
course,  not  for  nothing  that  this  lean  woman  with  the 
wild  eyes  was  taking  the  scanty  scraps  of  food  for 
them  from  the  mouths  of  her  own  children.  I  knew 
well,  bitterly  well,  how  it  must  be.  All  the  possessions 
of  these  two  refugees  had  not  yet  been  converted  to  the 
healer.  They  two  must  be  kept  a  little  longer.  Some 
starving  cow  or  pony,  some  quilt  or  piece  of  bead  work, 
was  still  to  be  got  hold  of.  The  Indians  are  not  by 
nature  a  grasping  people,  but  when  you  are  a  mother 
with  hungry  children  at  your  knee  necessity  drives  you 
with  a  double  goad. 

Therefore  I  smiled,  promising  to  drive  up  at  once  for 
the  meat,  the  four  or  five  miles  from  the  camp  to  the 
Post,  cook  it  in  my  oven, — without  salt— and  bring  it 
to  the  dying  man  tomorrow.  My  hand  was  still  resting 
on  the  iron  foot  of  the  cot.  Then  I  felt  creeping 
fingers,  and  a  hand,  an  old  hand,  closed  gently  over 


72  Teepee  Neighbors 

mine,  pressed,  seemed  to  caress.    I  had  no  need  to  look. 
It  was  the  blind  mother  who  thus  groped  for  me. 

Yes,  I  understood  it  all,  understood  that  she  realized 
what  I  had  been  thinking  of,  the  attitude  toward  her  of 
her  hosts,  and  that  she  recognized  also  friendship  when 
it  came  to  her.  At  length  I  slipped  my  hands  from 
tinder  hers  to  take  again  Felix's  in  parting.  Oh !  the 
horrid,  pitiful  touch  of  that  hand,  soiled  and  sick. 

"I  will  come  tomorrow,"  I  cried,  in  the  loud  voice  I 
must  needs  use.  "Tomorrow,  tomorrow/'  I  repeated 
in  Indian  the  one  word  of  the  sentence  that  I  knew  in 
that  language. 

The  next  day  was  mild.  A  "Chinook"  wind  blew 
strongly  from  the  distant  ocean.  It  cut  into  the  snow, 
making  it  look  ragged  and  unnatural. 

When  I  drove  this  time  to  Saddle  Blanket's,  I  took 
the  baby  with  me.  I  laid  him  in  a  little  bed, — im 
provised  from  the  top  of  an  old  canvass  "telescope"- 
at  my  feet,  on  the  floor  of  the  buggy.  He  could  be 
warm  and  covered  there,  and  at  the  same  time  leave  my 
hands  free  for  driving.  This  time  there  were  people 
about  outside  the  camp.  An  old  man  came  up  and  tied 
my  horse  for  me.  I  lifted  out  the  baby  and  carried  him 
on  one  arm,  my  panful  of  things  on  the  other.  I  fumb 
led  at  the  door.  The  lean  woman  from  within  opened 
it.  The  room  was  less  filled,  the  air  mercifully  fresher. 
Felix  was  better,  you  could  see  it.  There  was  hope 


Teepee  Neighbors  73 

in  his  face.  The  medicine  paint  was  gone.  He  was 
even  making  out  to  sit  up,  after  a  fashion,  still  propped 
by  the  litter  of  blankets  and  dirty  pillows  behind  him. 
He  had  on  a  clean  shirt,  a  light  one,  it  was  buttoned 
decently  over  his  skeleton  chest,  whereas  yesterday  his 
miserable  nakedness  had  been  half  disclosed. 

I  came  in  stumbling,  laughing  a  little,  so  encumbered 
was  I.  The  blind  woman,  still  sitting  on  the  ground  at 
the  bed  foot,  turned  her  face  to  me.  The  baby  made  a 
little  gurgling  sound.  The  mother  heard  it.  She 
reached  out  her  old  arms.  Then  I  let  the  baby  slip, 
all  bundled  and  hooded  as  he  was,  into  her  lap.  Her 
hands  found  everything:  the  knot  of  the  capstrings,  his 
rounding  cheeks,  his  little  bent  ringers.  She  nestled 
him,  under  her  shawl,  spoke  endearingly  to  him.  He 
answered  her  in  his  own  way. 

I  was  talking  at  the  bedside  to  Felix,  showing  him 
the  food,  explaining.  He  sat  with  his  shoulders  bent, 
his  bony  hands  resting  on  the  quilts,  his  long  braids 
falling  forward  in  the  hollows  of  his  chest. 

"Thank  you !"  he  cried,  "Thank  you !  That's  good. 
I'll  eat  good." 

It  came  into  my  mind  just  then  that  they  had  told 
me  that  at  the  mission  school  he  had  attended  he  had 
been  one  of  the  Sanctuary  boys,  one  of  the  servers  of 
the  Mass.  Well,  he  would  "eat  good"  and  die  a  little 
less  hungry,  perhaps,  because  of  my  meat  and  bread. 


74  Teepee  Neighbors 

The  lean  woman  emptied  my  food  into  dishes  and 
pans  of  hers  and  handed  me  back  my  things.  The 
children  played  about  with  the  puppies.  Everything 
today  seemed  easy,  relaxed.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he 
was  not  as  near  gone  as  yesterday  he  had  seemed  to  be. 
Consumption  is  so  deceptive. 

I  went,  at  last,  taking  the  baby  from  the  reluctant 
arms  of  the  blind  woman.  I  promised  to  return  in 
a  few  days  with  more  food.  The  mother  followed  me 
to  the  door  and  stood  outside  in  the  sunlight  against 
the  grey  walls  of  the  house,  smiling  and  turning  toward 
me  her  listening  face. 

It  was  two  days  after  that,  that  my  baby  was  taken 
suddenly  and  seriously  ill.  He  would  not  eat  at  all. 
We,  on  that  ranch  remote  from  neighbors  and  help, 
hung  over  him  impotently,  watched,  feared.  It  had 
turned  very  cold  again,  but  in  despair  we  wrapped  him 
up,  and  drove  with  him  the  long  nineteen  miles  we 
must  needs  go  to  the  one  town  of  this  ranch  region 
and  the  only  place  where  medical  help  of  much  use 
might  be  had.  My  husband  left  me  there  with  the 
baby,  returning  the  next  day  to  the  ranch  and  his 
duties.  He  bought  food  in  the  town  for  Felix.  My 
last  words  to  him  were  as,  bundled  to  the  ears,  he  sat 
gathering  up  the  lines  and  whip,  "The  first  thing 
in  the  morning,  you'll  go  down  to  Felix,  the  first  thing. 
You  won't  put  it  off  an  hour,  will  you?" 


Teepee  Neighbors  75 

When  he  came  back  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  told 
me  about  it.  He  had  gone  with  the  meat  and  things 
only  to  find  the  camp  deserted.  The  cabins  were  there, 
squat  and  wretched  under  the  ragged  cotton  woods, 
the  corral  still  contained  the  scanty  hay  stack,  the 
mowing  machine  stood  blocked  with  snow.  But  the 
wagon  was  gone,  and  the  dog  teepee.  The  place  was 
empty  of  all  life.  A  short  log  of  wood  resting  against 
the  door  of  the  cabin  where  Felix  had  been,  signified, 
in  the  Indian  way,  that  the  place  was  to  be  considered 
locked.  Looking  in  through  the  window  it  could  be 
seen  that  the  sick  man's  bed  was  also  gone. 

You  take  the  signs  for  what  they  mean,  of  course.  It 
had  happened;  evidently,  was  over;  on  some  rocky 
ledge,  in  the  scant,  frozen  earth  of  that  wilderness  of 
snow  and  sunlight  stretching  back  from  the  river,  they 
had  buried  him.  His  skeleton,  racked  body,  the  long 
hair  smoothed  and  anointed,  the  face  painted  ceremon 
ially,  dressed  in  all  his  best — which  for  this  even  the 
cupidity  of  the  lean  medicine  woman  had  spared  to 
him — beaded  moccasins  on  his  feet,  wrapped  in  new 
quilts,  many,  many  of  them,  a  great,  stark  motley 
bundle,  they  had  laid  him  in  that  freezing  bed,  and  on 
top  of  him,  as  he  lay,  they  had  placed  the  cup  from 
Avhich  on  the  day  of  my  first  visit  the  old  woman 
had  given  him  to  drink,  the  dishes  and  pans  which  had 
held  the  food  I  had  brought  him,  his  pillows  and  dingy 


76  Teepee  Neighbors 

quilts.  The  iron  bed  mended  with  boards  no  doubt 
was  thrown  dismembered  at  the  side  of  the  grave. 

I  could  see  it  all ;  the  blind  woman  standing  in  her 
scant  rags,  and  thin,  torn  shawl,  perhaps  the  blood 
streaming  from  her  legs,  which,  in  her  sorrow,  she  had 
gashed  with  knives,  her  hair  falling  loose,  her  half -un 
covered  flesh  shivering  in  the  bitter  cold ;  and  wailing 
—wailing,  half  a  song,  half  a  cry.  Other  wromen  had 
dug  his  grave :  She  was  blind !  Other  women  had 
swaddled  him  for  his  long  sleep:  She  was  blind! 
Other  women  had  seen  the  last  flicker  in  his  eyes,  the 
look  of  love  meant  for  her:  She  was  blind.  But  she 
might  cry  for  him,  standing,  swaying  and  uncertain,  by 
the  grave,  hearing  the  heavy,  creaking  steps  of  those 
who  bore  him. 

Afterwards  she  must  needs  go  patiently  back  to  life, 
must  take  up  her  lonely,  stumbling  burden,  until  she 
also  should  be  borne  to  her  shallow  grave.  Back  she 
must  creep,  shorn  of  her  son,  naked  of  her  goods,  a 
public  care,  a  never  ceasing  burden  on  her  tribe. 

It  was  nearly  a  year  before  I  so  much  as  set  eyes 
on  her  again.  In  our  wandering  Indian  world  it  is  often 
that  way ;  long  distance,  long  time,  may  separate  those 
whose  hearts  have  for  a  moment  beaten  in  friendship. 

I  remember  also,  that  when  my  husband  told  me 
that  Felix  was  gone,  with  a  heavy  heart,  seeking  soft 
words,  I  sat  down  to  write  to  Damon,  his  young 
brother  away  at  school,  my  sorry  news. 


THE  POT  AND  THE  KETTLE 

SHE  THUDDED  into  my  room,  grunting  a  little  and 
closing  the  door  behind  her  noisily.  Then  she  flung 
the  solid,  square  bulk  of  herself  into  a  chair,  with 
rough  abandon  shaking  back  from  her  face  her 
grizzled  hair.  When  I  came  in  to  salute  her  she  was 
grumbling  under  her  breath. 

"How!"  said  I.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you.  But  what 
are  you  doing  here?  I  thought  you  were  washing  for 
the  trader's  woman." 

"Yes.     Me  wash." 

"Well,  it's  dinner  time." 

Her  keen  little  eyes  shot  me  a  glance.  "Yes.  Me 
hungry." 

"Well,"  I  began,  "I  suppose  the  trader's  folks  eat 
dinner,  don't  they?" 

She  hitched  her  shawl,  settled  herself  back  into  the 
chair  with  a  jerk,  cleared  her  throat,  spat  into  the 
stove.  "Yes,  heap  cook.  Big  one,  black  woman.  Me 
no  like  um.  No  good!"  Her  big  hand  leaped  from 
beneath  her  shawl  and  was  thrust  out  to  one  side,  the 
fingers  opening  in  that  derisive,  unmistakable  gesture 
which  means  indeed  "No  good!" 

The  old  woman  laughed  with  her  big  coarse  voice, 
eyeing  me  sharply. 

"You  kimme  dinner,"  she  said.    "You  clean.    Black 
77 


78  Teepee  Neighbors 

woman,  that  dirty.  No  good !  No  good !"  Her  liana* 
proclaimed  disgust. 

Her  grizzled  locks  straggled  stiffly  about  her  neck, 
short  and  shaggy  and  unbraided.  So  often  had  she 
hacked  them  off  in  mourning,  so  often  worn  them  veil- 
like  about  her  weeping  face,  that  now,  as  with  her 
"white"  sisters,  many  long-time  widows  or  the  mothers 
of  long-since  dead  children  still  wear  black,  so  she 
never  gathered  her  hair  into  even  a  semblance  of  that 
order  which  had  proclaimed  her  once  happy  state.  Her 
checked  outing  flannel  shawl — a  bed  sheet  in  reality — 
was  soiled  and  grimy ;  where  lately  she  had  stood  at  the 
tub  her  dress  was  splashed  and  wet,  her  moccasins  also 
were  sodden. 

She  grumbled  on.  "You  kimme  eat.  All  day,  heap 
work,  no  eat.  No  good !  No  good !" 

I  had  gone  back  to  my  duties  in  the  kitchen  but  I 
could  hear  her  flinging  herself  about  in  the  chair. 

"Dirty.  Dirty.  Heap  work.  No  eat.  Buffalo-sol 
dier-woman." 

I  peeped  at  her  through  the  door-way.  Back  and 
forth  before  her  bulky  middle  she  drew  the  edge  of  her 
hand,  saw-like,  in  the  "hungry"  sign. 

"Hungry.  You  kimme  eat.  She  dirty.  No  good. 
But  you  my  friend.  You  clean." 

Again  she  spat  into  the  stove,  wiping  with  a  corner 
of  her  grimy  shawl  the  sweat  from  her  fat  face. 


MOTHERS 

THEY  CAME  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  an  old 
bent  woman  with  ragged  clothes  and  hair;  her  sleeves 
hanging  open — in  the  way  old  people  make  their 
dresses — afforded  a  glimpse  of  withered  discolored 
arms ;  and  with  her  a  young  woman,  neatly  braided 
and  shod,  a  little  carmine  paint  on  each  rounded  cheek. 
Entering  they  went  to  the  baby  carriage  and  bent  above 
it.  The  younger  woman,  holding  back  with  slender 
pointed  fingers  her  shawl,  leaned  down  over  the  baby. 

"Is  he  sick?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  I  was  stupid  with  weariness.  Half 
of  the  night  before  we  had  been  up  with  him,  and 
added  to  that  physical  strain  there  was  the  constant 
wearing  of  anxiety. 

The  younger  woman  interpreted  for  the  old  one. 
Together  they  stooped  above  the  child,  speaking  to 
each  other  in  low  voices. 

I  offered  them  chairs.    "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

They  did  so.  Absently  the  old  woman  held  out  her 
fingers  toward  the  stove.  The  air  was  full  of  the  chill 
of  spring.  I  talked  to  them  a  little  but  with  effort. 
They  must  have  noticed. 

"And  how   many   children  have  you,   Katherine?" 

She  looked  at  me  a  little  heavily.    "Three,"  she  said. 

It  is  so  seldom  that  you  see  an  Indian  mother  sep- 
79 


8o  Teepee  Neighbors 

arated  from  her  children  that  I  suppose  I  must  have 
stared  at  her  in  surprise.  At  any  rate  she  explained. 

"Two  are  dead,"  she  said.  The  words  were  spoken 
with  a  faintly  breathed  sigh. 

"Oh!"  I  said,  "Oh!" 

No  doubt  the  old  woman  guessed  what  we  were 
saying,  for  she  turned  to  me,  and,  half  behind  the 
girl's  back,  made  with  her  hands  certain  signs.  I 
looked  hastily  at  the  younger  woman.  She  smiled  at 
me  a  little  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"And  one  isn't  born  yet,"  she  went  on. 

I  smiled  too,  that  sweet  intimate  smile  that  women 
know. 

"When?"  I  asked. 

"In  June,  I  guess." 

"Then  you'll  be  happy  again." 

She  rocked  her  arms  suddenly  in  her  shawl  and  a 
vague  tenderness  crept  into  her  eyes.  She  smiled  at 
me  again. 

Then  they  sat,  each  on  her  chair,  talking  to  one  an 
other  occasionally  in  low  tones,  their  eyes  straying  over 
the  pictures  that  hung  on  the  walls,  drifting  back  to  the 
baby. 

I  was  alone  on  the  ranch  that  afternoon  and  was  due 
to  be  so  all  the  evening. 

"Your  man  away?" 

"Yes." 


Teepee  Neighbors  81 

She  interpreted  to  the  old  woman. 

"When  he  come  back?" 

"About  bedtime,  I  think." 

At  last  I  got  up  and,  I  am  afraid  with  reluctance, 
went  to  cook  them  some  supper.  I  had  not  intended  to 
do  so  for  just  myself ;  a  little  bread  would  have  sufficed 
me.  But  I  remembered  that  it  was  the  hungry  time  of 
the  year  when  money  was  gone  and  credit  stretched 
to  the  breaking  point.  I  knew  they  must  need  my 
food. 

They  sat  on  the  floor  to  eat.  Chairs  did  very  well 
for  ordinary  use  but  when  it  was  a  question  of  enjoying 
the  sparse  carnal  pleasures  of  life,  borrowed  customs 
could  not  be  allowed  to  stand  in  the  way  of  one's 
gratification.  They  devoured  the  food  almost  vor 
aciously.  But  very  soon  the  old  woman  ceased  eating. 
With  her  old  dark  hands  she  took  the  meat  from  her 
plate  and  some  of  the  bread  and  tied  these  fragments 
of  food  in  a  corner  of  her  shawl.  The  young  woman 
looked  at  me  uncertainly. 

"She  say  she  take  that  home  to  her  man." 

"Oh !  that's  all  right." 

Then  it  was  that  I  noticed  that  the  old  hands, 
fumbling  with  the  corner  of  the  shawl,  were  marred. 
The  last  joint  of  each  little  ringer  was  massing.  You 
never  see  young  hands  thus  marked,  but  the  old  ones 
are  often  so.  It  is  an  ancient  custom,  that  of  maiming 


82  Teepee  Neighbors 

one's  self  in  token  of  mourning,  of  slashing  and  sever 
ing  and  scarring  one's  self. 

"She  has  no  children  living,  has  she?" 

"No,"  answered  the  girl. 

"I  wonder  how  many  she  has  had." 

According  to  Indian  etiquette  one  must  hint  rather 
then  question. 

The  young  woman  spoke  to  her  gently,  then  looked 
up  at  me.  "Nine,"  she  said. 

The  old  woman  raised  her  hands,  nine  of  their  fin 
gers  elevated.  Then  she  spread  her  hands  upon  her 
lap  and  stared  at  them  strangely,  with  who  knew  what 
of  pain  and  recollection  in  her  rheumy  eyes. 

I  shook  my  head  deprecatingly.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  adequate  to  say. 

The  girl  gathered  up  their  empty  dishes.  "Shall  I 
put  them  in  the  kitchen  ?" 

"Do,  please." 

I  thought  then  that  they  would  surely  go.  I  wanted 
to  be  alone.  I  wanted  to  look  at  my  baby,  to  listen  to 
his  breathing;  I  wanted  to  hoard  the  sight  of  him. 
But  their  presence  and  their  talk  continually  intervened. 

"It's  getting  late." 

They  looked  at  the  baby,  at  the  darkening  windows, 
at  the  baby  again. 

"Yes."    They  smiled  at  me  faintly. 

And  still  they  sat. 


Teepee  Neighbors  83 

An  owl  across  the  river  cried  out  dismally.  I  stole 
a  furtive  look  at  them.  The  Indians  believe  that  the 
owl's  cry  is  that  of  some  vagabond  marauding  ghost. 
To  them  it  is  the  wail  of  the  dead.  They  made  no 
sign,  and  yet  I  knew  that  they  had  heard. 

After  that  there  was  silence.  Twice  the  young  girl 
looked  at  the  clock.  I  had  never  previously  had  any  of 
my  Indian  callers  stay  thus  into  the  night,  braving  a 
return  through  the  haunted  dark. 

And  still  they  sat. 

"Is  anyone  at  your  camp?" 

"Her  man,  he's  there." 

The  windows  grew  quite  black.  Again  the  owl 
broke  forth  in  his  sudden  mournful  melody.  Then 
the  old  woman  spoke  energetically  to  the  young  one. 
The  girl  turned  toward  me. 

"She  says,  'ain't  you  'fraid  here?'  " 

"Oh !  no,"  I  answered. 

"But— alone?" 

"No." 

"You  not  'fraid  to  stay  here  till  your  man  come 
home?" 

I  shook  my  head,  smiling.  The  girl  interpreted. 
Then  they  both  looked  at  the  baby.  With  a  little 
grunt  the  old  woman  got  up,  gathering  her  shawl  about 
her.  The  other  followed  her  example. 

"She  say,  then  we  go  home.    We  think  maybe  you 


84  Teepee  Neighbors 

'fraid.  Her  man,  he  hungry;  there  ain't  much  to  eat 
over  there." 

There  was  no  doubt  but  what  they  went  with  re 
lief,  you  could  see  it  in  their  stride,  in  the  set  of  their 
shoulders.  They  covered  their  heads  with  their  shawls 
and,  one  behind  the  other,  they  drifted  silently  away 
into  the  night. 

"Goodbye,"  I  called  after  them. 

And  they  cried  back  something  to  me  out  of  the 
dark. 

I  closed  the  door  to  sink  down  beside  the  carriage. 

Then  again,  forlorn  and  sweet,  from  out  of  the 
night,  sounded  the  cry  of  the  owl. 


A  BOY'S  MOTHER 

Tap,  tap,  tap. 

I  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  jerk.  "Wake  up !"  I  whis 
pered,  "Wake  up!  There's  somebody  knocking/'  I 
shook  my  husband  a  little  by  the  arm. 

He  opened  a  sleepy  eye.  "Can't  be,"  he  grumbled. 
"Why,  it's  the  middle  of  the  night.  I  never  heard  of 
anybody  coming  into  the  ranch  at  this  hour." 

Then  fumblingly,  tentatively,  it  sounded  again:  tap. 
tap,  tap;  and  ended  faintly,  as  with  an  apology. 

"By  Jove!"  he  cried,  and  jumped  out  of  bed. 

Through  the  high,  scantily-curtained  window  the 
moonlight  poured  in  a  flood,  half  revealing  the  familiar 
objects  of  the  room,  a  little  distorted  and  meta 
morphosed. 

He  opened  the  door  a  crack.  No  one  lived  near 
our  place  except  the  Indians,  so  we  seldom  locked  up 
of  a  night.  Then  followed  a  sound  of  talking,  A 
voice  as  timid,  as  deprecating,  as  had  been  the  knocking 
answered  my  husband. 

He  turned  back  into  the  room.  "It's  one  of  the  boys 
from  the  Government  school,"  he  said.  "He  lives  way 
off  down  the  river  and  they're  letting  him  go  home 
early,  though  the  regular  vacation  doesn't  begin  till  the 
end  of  the  week.  He  says  he  stopped  at  the  hot  springs 
for  a  swim  and  his  horse  got  away.  He  doesn't  know 

85 


86  Teepee  Neighbors 

very  well  any  of  the  Indians  who  live  up  this  way  and 
asks  if  we  will  let  him  come  in  here  and  sleep  for  the 
rest  of  the  night." 

"Why,  of  course.    Which  boy  is  it?" 

"It's  that  youngest  son  of  Island  Woman's,  Herman 
Island,  I  think  they  call  him.  He's  just  a  little  shaver, 
twelve  or  so,  I  should  say.  Is  the  spare-room  bed 
made  up?" 

I  answered  that  it  was.  He  got  into  some  clothes 
and  disappeared  to  conduct  our  nocturnal  guest  to  it. 

"That  was  sensible  of  him  to  come  here,  wasn't  it?" 
I  said  when  he  had  returned.  "I  never  knew  one  of 
the  boys  to  do  that  before,  yet  I'm  sure  I  always  try 
to  make  them  feel  at  home  when  they  drop  in." 

"He  seems  a  plausible  kid,  but  shy,  I  couldn't  get 
much  out  of  him." 

We  settled  down  to  sleep.  But  I  was  struggling 
with  a  thought.  Though  it  seemed  an  unworthy  one 
it  very  much  wanted  to  escape  in  words. 

"Are  you  asleep?  Do  you — do  you  suppose  he 
could  be  running  away?" 

He  turned  over  suddenly.  "I  thought  of  that,"  he 
said. 

"They've  had  so  much  trouble  with  the  big  boys 
lately  that  way.  I  hate  to  suspect  him,  but — " 

"Oh!  well;  go  to  sleep.  We  can  call  up  the  super 
intendent  in  the  morning." 


Teepee  Neighbors  87 

"The  boy  may  be  gone  by  the  morning.  But  still  we 
couldn't  get  the  school  in  the  night,  there'd  be  no  one 
in  the  office  to  answer  the  phone.  If  he  stays  for 
breakfast  and  hangs  around  and  just  acts  natural  I 
shall  conclude  that  everything  is  all  right." 

''Oh !  I  guess  it  is.  Go  to  sleep  before  the  baby 
wakes  up  again." 

Morning  disclosed  our  boy  sitting  on  the  flat  rock 
that  served  us  for  a  step  at  our  living-room  door.  He 
was  imperturbable,  and  unhurried.  "Well,  Herman ; 
aren't  you  sleepy  after  being  up  so  late?" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  me.  Soft  eyes,  they  were,  for 
an  Indian's,  a  little  wistful,  inclined  to  be  pathetic, 
very  shy,  almost  furtive. 

"No,  ma'am."  He  turned  from  me  with  his  little 
drooping  smile. 

"Weren't  you  afraid  of  ghosts,  running  around  in 
the  night  that  way?" 

He  shot  me  a  shy  glance.    "A  little  bit." 

"Well,  they  didn't  get  you.  I  don't  believe  they 
bother  good  boys.  Are  they  letting  you  go  home  early 
because  you  live  so  far  away?  How  far  is  it  to  your 
place?  Forty  miles?  Fifty?" 

"It's  a  long  way.  I  don't  know  how  far.  My  mother, 
she  sick.  I  just  hear  it  yesterday." 

"Oh !  I'm  so  sorry.  But  where  do  you  think  your 
horse  can  be?" 


88  Teepee  Neighbors 

He  pointed  to  the  low  hills  opposite.  "I  guess  he 
joined  some  -bunch  over  there.  I  find  him  easy,  I 
think.  I  know  his  tracks." 

Inside  the  house  the  baby  whimpered  a  little.  I 
went  to  her.  "Herman,  would  you  mind  holding  her 
for  me  while  I  get  breakfast?  I  can  do  it  so  much 
quicker  if  you  will." 

He  settled  himself  more  solidly  upon  the  door  step, 
lifted  a  face  lit  by  a  young,  sweet  smile.  "I  hold  her," 
he  said.  Then,  shyly,  "My  mother,  she  got  a  baby,  a 
boy  though." 

I  brought  the  baby,  tied  up  Indian  way  in  her  little 
blanket,  and  handed  her  down  to  him.  He  stretched 
up  his  short,  boy's  arms  to  receive  her.  The  clothes 
he  wore  were  of  the  regulation  government  variety; 
iron  grey,  patched,  not  too  clean,  misfits.  The  coat 
and  shoes  were  two  sizes  too  big  for  him. 

While  I  cooked,  and  set  my  table,  I  could  hear  great 
conversation  in  progress  on  the  door-step,  gurgles  and 
little  squeals,  interspersed  with  soft  encouraging  words. 
No  one  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  for  the  meal. 

Breakfast  over,  I  supplied  Herman  with  a  stereo 
scope  and  pictures  while  I  took  the  baby  into  the 
kitchen  to  give  her  her  bath.  Presently  the  boy  fol 
lowed  me ;  the  splashing  and  laughing  allured  him.  He 
crept  in  at  the  door,  a  little  drooping,  altogether  shy, 


Teepee  Neighbors  89 

almost  furtive.  He  had  no  eyes  for  me.  His  sweet 
winning  smile  was  turned  toward  the  baby. 

"How  big  is  your  mother's  baby?" 

He  smiled  reminiscently.  "  'Bout  like  this  one,  I 
guess."  He  looked  up  at  me  suddenly.  "He  got  teeth," 
he  said,  "two." 

We  laughed  together  over  the  teeth.  I  wouldn't  for 
the  world  have  called  up  the  superintendent. 

After  a  while:  "Well,  I  guess  now  I  go  look  for 
my  horse."  He  got  his  hat,  sidled  toward  the  door. 
At  the  last  moment  he  smiled  back  at  me  shyly. 
"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

"Oh!  You're  welcome.  It  was  very  sensible  and 
nice  of  you  to  have  come.  I  do  want  you  boys  to  feel 
that  we  are  always  your  friends."  I  was  waxing  sen 
timental.  "Goodbye,  and  be  sure  you  stop  again." 

I  watched  him,  in  his  ungainly  clothes,  trudging 
toward  the  lower  gate. 

"I  wonder  ..."  I  said,  "I  wonder  .  .  ."  The  baby 
had  fallen  asleep  on  my  lap.  "That's  not  at  all  the 
direction  he  said  the  horse  was  in." 

The  next  time  I  saw  the  superintendent  was  at  the 
end  of  the  short  vacation.  What  he  said  to  me  caused 
me  to  cease  wondering  suddenly.  I  began  to  tell  him 
the  story  of  our  nocturnal  visitor.  Half  way  through 
he  wheeled  about  on  me:  "Why  on  earth  didn't  you 
call  me  up?" 


90  Teepee  Neighbors 

I  looked  at  him  blankly.  Could  the  thing  that  he 
implied  be  true?  I  remembered  those  wistful  eyes, 
that  sweet,  sweet  smile,  the  short,  boy's  arms  held  up 
for  my  baby.  I  remembered  how  little  and  mis  formed 
he  had  looked  trudging  toward  the  wrong  gate.  "It 
was  Herman  Island,"  I  ventured. 

"Herman  Island!  Oh,  I  know!  Pulled  out  that 
night  somehow.  Must  have  gone  by  the  window,  for 
the  dormitory  door  was  locked.  Hadn't  any  more 
horse  than  a  jack-rabbit.  And  the  nerve  of  him  to 
stop  at  your  place !  Knew  well  enough  no  one  would 
look  for  him  there.  The  other  children,  the  whole  two 
hundred  of  them,  are  back  from  their  holiday,  but  we 
can't  find  hide  nor  hair  of  him." 

"He  said  his  mother  was  sick." 

"Likely  enough.  She's  a  frail  sort  of  woman. 
Sometimes  when  he  runs  away  she  brings  him  back. 
Oh  yes!  he's  a  chronic  case;  gone  half  the  time.  This 
trip  we've  had  half  the  Indian  police  out  after  him, 
but  nobody  seems  able  to  locate  him.  Shucks  !  I  wish 
you'd  called  me  up." 

"I — I  really  couldn't  have  anyway,  he  was  so  sweet 
with  the  baby." 

He  withered  me  with  a  look.  "You'd  have  saved 
him  a  licking,  for  I  tell  you  I  won't  do  a  thing  to  that 
boy  when  I  get  him  back,  not  a  blame  thing—" 


Teepee  Neighbors  91 

"Such  a  little  boy,  and  such  glib  lying.  My  good 
ness  !"  said  I. 

"That's  why  we've  got  him  here  at  the  government 
school.  They  couldn't  hold  him  at  all  at  the  Mission. 
We  don't  seem  to  be  doing  much  better." 

A  few  weeks  after  that  I  drove  in  to  the  school 
grounds.  The  boys,  drawn  up  in  a  long  row  graduated 
according  to  size,  were  standing  to  salute  the  flag, 
which  at  sunset  was  being  hauled  down.  I  stopped 
to  watch  them.  At  the  end  of  the  row,  quite  out  of 
his  proper  place,  stood  a  boy  of  twelve  or  so,  his  coat 
and  boots  several  sizes  too  big  for  him.  The  line 
wavered  and  broke,  the  boys  scattering  in  all  direc 
tions  ;  only  the  misfit  boy  walked  alone.  He  halted 
strangely  in  his  gait. 

The  superintendent  came  out  to  me.  "How  d'ye  do?" 
he  said.  He  pointed  to  the  slow-moving  boy.  "See 
Herman?  Yes,  we  got  him  back.  It  took  a  couple  of 
policemen  and  the  agent  in  person  to  do  it.  I  licked 
him  till — well,  I  licked  him  good  and  proper,  I  can 
tell  you.  But — do  you  know — we  caught  him  that  very 
night  sliding  down  the  rain  pipe.  Oh !  He  beats  any 
thing  I  ever  saw.  That's  why  I  put  the  ball  and  chain 
on  him." 

"The— what?" 

"Ball  and  chain.  I  suppose  that  if  an  inspector 
caught  him  with  it  he'd  give  me  something  to  remem- 


92  Teepee  Neighbors 

her,  but  by  Jove !  the  agent's  always  after  me  for  not 
holding  that  boy.  What  am  I  to  do?  I  wish  some  of 
those  cocky  inspectors  would  stay  awhile  and  tackle 
one  or  two  of  our  chronic  cases.  They  just  come  and 
take  a  look  and  slip  away  to  some  other  field.  We 
have  to  do  all  the  devising."  He  turned  toward  the 
retreating  figure  of  the  boy.  "Hey  there,  Herman! 
You  hurry  up  and  get  those  chores  done,  d'ye  hear?" 

The  slow-moving  boy  lifted  patient  unsmiling  eyes, 
dropped  them  again,  toiled  haltingly  on  his  way. 

"How  long  shall  you  keep  it  on  him?" 

"Oh !  till  I  think  he's  reformed.  But  you  can't  tell. 
He's  a  sure  slick  one." 

The  next  time  I  went  to  the  school  I  asked  for  the 
boy.  The  superintendent  shot  me  a  side-long  look. 
"Gone,"  he  said.  "That  ball  and  chain  business  got 
on  my  nerves — " 

"It's  been  on  mine !"    I  interrupted. 

" — so  I  took  it  off.  I  declare  I  hadn't  got  it  stowed 
away  yet  before  he  was  gone."  He  looked  at  me  whim 
sically.  Then  we  both  laughed. 

"What  next?"  asked  I. 

He  shook  his  head.  "A  long  vacation  for  Herman,  I 
guess.  I  think  I'm  at  the  end  of  my  resources." 

It  was  three  days  later  that  wishing  to  send  a  tele 
gram  I  drove  to  the  school  to  use  their  phone,  which 
connected  directly  with  the  telegraph  office  in  the  sta- 


Teepee  Neighbors  93 

tion  at  Rawdon.  Our  phone  at  the  ranch  was  only 
a  local  one.  There  was  a  sound  of  talking  in  the  office. 
I  went  in  tentatively. 

The  superintendent  sat  behind  his  desk.  In  front 
of  him  on  a  straight-backed  chair  was  an  Indian  wom 
an.  She  was  thin  to  emaciation.  Her  lean,  lined  face 
wore  an  harassed  expression.  Her  bony  hands  held 
together  the  folds  of  her  blanket  which  supported  the 
weight  of  a  sleeping  child.  Her  moccasins,  made 
obviously  of  the  denim  of  old  overalls,  were  ragged; 
her  hair  straggled  untidily.  Backed  against  the  wall, 
hat  in  hand,  head  drooped,  stood  the  listless  figure  of 
a  boy.  The  superintendent  was  speaking.  I  paused, 
listening.  With  a  ruler  he  tapped  his  desk,  emphasizing 
his  words. 

"No  more  lickings,  no  more  lock-up,  no  more  ball 
and  chain.  But,  understand,  the  police  of  this  res 
ervation  have  something  better  to  do  than  to  hunt  up 
the  same  runaway  all  the  time.  Herman,  I  shall  keep 
you  in  school  and  just  as  free  as  the  other  boys.  But 
this  I  say  to  you,  the  next  time  you  go,  I  shall  send 
directly  down  to  your  camp,  and  your  mother,"  he 
made  a  little  gesture  toward  her,  "shall  go  straight  to 
the  lock-up.  Your  mother,  you  understand,  not  you .  . " 

The  boy  jerked  suddenly,  lifted  a  startled  face. 

"Interpret,"  commanded  the  superintendent  inex 
orably.  "Tell  her  just  what  I  said." 


94  Teepee  Neighbors 

Without  looking  at  her  the  boy  spoke ;  his  voice,  pro 
nouncing  the  guttural  Indian  words,  was  low  and  halt 
ing. 

The  woman  made  a  faint  inarticulate  cry,  looked 
quickly  from  the  boy  to  the  superintendent,  and  then 
back  to  the  boy.  She  spoke  to  him  suddenly  in  art 
eager  voice.  He  shook  his  head. 

"Does  she  understand?" 

"Yes,  sir !" 

"Well,  you  may  go.     That's  all." 

The  boy  made  a  sign  to  his  mother  and  turning  sidled 
out  of  the  office.  The  woman  gathered  her  shawl  more 
securely  about  the  baby  and  followed  him. 

When  I  finished  my  telephoning  and  went  out,  I  saw 
them  sitting  side  by  side  and  close  together  on  the  edge 
of  the  board  walk.  As  I  passed  them  she  got  up. 
Stooping,  she  lifted  the  sleeping  baby  to  her  back  and 
balanced  it  there,  its  little  face  against  her  neck,  while, 
with  hands  extended  behind  her  back,  she  drew  her 
shawl  up  over  it  and  gathered  the  folds  tight  across 
her  breast.  She  bent  down  still  further  and  kissed  the 
bowed  face  of  the  boy.  Then,  rising,  she  walked  away 
from  him,  striding  a  little  with  her  long,  flat-footed 
steps.  He  sat  where  she  had  left  him  upon  the  edge 
of  the  walk,  a  huddled  bunch  of  misfitting  clothes. 

"And  did  he  ever  run  away  again?"    It  was  the  next 


Teepee  Neighbors  95 

year  at  the  school  Christmas  tree  that  I  asked  the  ques 
tion. 

The  superintendent  beamed  upon  me.  "Never!"  he 
said. 

Santa  Claus,  of  orthodox  shape  and  costume,  stand 
ing  on  a  chair,  reached  down  from  the  tree  a  big  bundle 
and  handed  it  to  the  superintendent,  who  turned  it  over 
to  read  the  name  on  it.  Holding  it  high,  and  with  a 
smile  on  his  not  unkindly  face,  he  called  out  over  the 
hubbub  of  murmuring  children  and  crackling  peanut 
shells :  "Come  up  and  get  your  stuff,  Herman  Island." 


THE  DEAD  BIRD 

I  STOPPED  the  horses  before  the  Government  school, 
for  I  always  found  it  hard  when  the  children  were  out 
in  front  playing,  to  drive  callously  by.  The  girls — for 
I  was  on  their  side — in  their  blue  "hickory"  aprons 
sprawled  or  sauntered  over  the  short  alfalfa  lawn,  or 
from  the  edge  of  the  terrace  or  the  board  walk  dangled 
feet  shod  with  clumsy  "Government"  boots.  Although 
there  were  many  of  them — over  a  hundred  I  should 
say — they  made  but  little  noise.  Like  fawns  slipping 
amongst  tree  trunks,  they  frolicked,  something  a  trifle 
furtive  always  in  the  eyes  of  the  boldest  of  them,  a 
shred  of  silence  forever  enfolding  them.  They  walked, 
even  the  very  youngest  ones,  with  shoulders  and  heads 
a  little  bent,  as  though  constantly  they  supported  in 
visible  shawls.  Their  steps  were  long  and  a  little 
shambling,  as  are  the  steps  of  those  who  go  habitually 
without  heels,  and  who  are  never  forced  to  hurry. 
Their  aspect  implied  a  sense  of  endurance,  of  reserve, 
of  patience  invulnerable.  They  walked — even  the  big 
girls  who  spoke  fluent  English  and  had  put  in  their  ten 
or  twelve  years  at  the  school — but  most  of  all  they 
played,  as  do  children  in  a  familiar  house  made  sudden 
ly  strange  by  mourning.  They  frolicked  indeed,  but 
with  just  a  touch  of  inadvertence,  as  do  those  who  take 
what  amusement  they  can  find  rather  than  what  they 
would  have  chosen.  In  fine,  they  seemed  to  be  what 


Teepee  Neighbors  97 

they  were,  the  children  of  an  ancient,  enduring  over 
powered  people.  One  lifted  one's  eyes  from  them  to 
the  chain  of  mountains  walling  the  western  sky  and  felt 
that  some  way  those  mountains  and  these  children, 
despite  the  Government  blue,  were  of  kindred  stock; 
that  the  roots  of  the  one  reached  down,  groping,  to 
ward  the  roots  of  the  other;  and  that  only  one's  self 
in  the  store-bought  buggy  and  the  clothes  that  sug 
gested  remote  civilization  was  an  alien.  One  was 
overpowered  suddenly  and  strangely  by  the  sense  of 
being  an  outsider  in  one's  own  land. 

Then  there  came  from  some  place  out  of  sight  around 
the  corner  of  a  building,  a  drawling  sound  of  singing. 
An  old  familiar  hymn — though  one  had  to  force  one's 
self  to  recognize  it — rose  and  fell  in  sing-song,  toneless 
voices ;  garbled  words,  uncertain  rhythm. 

To  the  ring  of  shy  and  smiling  faces  vaguely  en 
circling  me  I  turned. 

"Why,  what's  that?" 

The  smiles  deepened,  the  eyes  were  upon  me  atten 
tively.  But — it  is  difficult  to  speak  out  before  many 
listeners.  No  one  seemed  able  to  overcome  her  diffi 
dence. 

Then  a  little  one — Bridget,  she  was  inappropriately 
called — ceased  suddenly  from  scrutinizing  the  worn 
boot  on  her  twisting  foot.  She  slipped  down  from  off 
the  terrace  wall.  Like  a  leaf  impelled  by  a  gentle 


98  Teepee  Neighbors 

current  she  drifted  to  my  side.  She  lifted  one  foot 
up  on  the  step  of  the  buggy,  raised  herself  till  her  eyes 
were  almost  on  a  level  with  mine,  found  a  hold  for  her 
other  foot,  slipped  a  small  chapped  hand  into  mine. 

"Well,  Bridget,"  said  I,  encouragingly. 

The  little  brown  face  was  tilted  downward,  away 
from  too  close  scrutiny.  The  sound  of  her  voice,  deep 
for  a  child's,  and  very  soft,  crept  to  me  as  might  have 
come,  trembling  yet  allured,  some  half -wild  thing  that 
one  had  fondled. 

"It's  a  funeral.  Them  girls"— her  child's  lips, 
pouted,  indicated  in  the  Indian  way  the  direction 
whence  came  the  singing — "they  bury  a  bird.  They 
find  little  bird  out  here,  dead,  all  draw  up ;  his  hands, 
this  way."  The  small  chapped  brown  hands  twisted 
and  distended  themselves  to  imitate  the  piti fulness  of 
the  dead  claws.  "Bessie,  she  take  her  doll  rags,  she 
wrap  him  all  up.  Then  Miss  Jones,  she  give  them  box. 
They  put  box  in  that  hole.  Now  they  have  funeral." 

All  the  furtive  smiling  eyes  of  the  circle  were  upon 
me,  and  from  me  strayed  to  the  side  of  the  building 
where  the  group  of  little,  blue-clad  figures  enjoyed  the 
expression  of  their  mock  grief. 

In  a  corner  of  the  steps,  her  back  against  the  railing, 
her  eyes  upon  her  lap,  so  little  that  she  was  more  than 
half  obscured  by  the  smiling,  "hickory"  dressed  circle, 


Teepee  Neighbors  99 

sat  a  small  thin  girl;  a  limp  bit  of  self-absorbed  child 
hood. 

"Who's  that  little  thing?" 

A  big  girl  shambled  over  to  her  and  gathered  her 
up  in  her  arms. 

"This  is  a  new  little  girl.  Come  and  shake  hands, 
Nancy,  will  you?  This  is  High  Eagle's  wife's  little 
girl.  I  guess  you  know  her  mother. 

"But  what  ails  her?" 

The  big  girl  looked  down  at  the  bent  black  head 
with  its  tight,  ribbon-tied  braid,  at  the  little  figure 
pressing  against  her  side. 

"She's  homesick,  I  guess,"  she  said. 

She  brought  the  child  to  me.  Lifting  one  apathetic 
hand  in  hers  she  extended  it  to  me.  I  shook  it  gently. 
The  child's  big  brooding  eyes,  strangely  sombre  in 
their  depths,  were  for  just  an  instant  of  awakened 
interest  raised  to  me.  Then  they  drooped  back  to  a 
wan  scrutiny  of  the  ground. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  big  eyes !  And  she's  gettin' 
so  thin — "  The  little  bird  claw  of  a  hand  still  rested 
inertly  in  mine — "I  guess  maybe  they'll  let  her  stay 
home  after  Christmas.  She's  not  six  yet  and  she 
wouldn't  be  here  only  her  mother's  so  poor.  The  agent 
thought  it  was  best  to  put  her  in  the  school.  All  the 
people  say  her  folks  don't  never  have  enough  to  eat." 


ioo  Teepee  Neighbors 

"But  you  said  she  was  fat  when  she  came  and  she's 
thin  enough  now." 

"Yes,"  said  the  big  girl,  and  she  sighed  a  little,  feel 
ing  suddenly,  I  suppose,  though  vaguely,  the  burden 
that  life  had  laid  upon  her  race.  Or  was  it  only,  that 
she  was  remembering  the  two  or  three  little  flames  that 
each  year  in  September  came  brightly  to  the  school, 
but  before  the  year's  close  were  snuffed  out?  Yet 
none  of  us  who  cared  for  them  was  ever  able  to  re 
mark  the  blowing  of  any  wind. 

The  big  girl  set  the  child  down.  The  little  drooping 
figure  walked  slowly  back  to  her  place  by  the  railing 
of  the  steps. 

"Does  she  cough?" 

"No,  ma'am;  but  they  give  her  cod  liver  oil.  She 
don't  like  it.  I  seen  her  cry  last  night  when  she  had  to 
swallow  it — The  cook  she  fixes  eggs  for  her." 

After  that  I  acquired  the  habit  of  seeking  her  out 
with  my  eyes  at  least,  every  time  I  came  to  the  school ; 
she  was  much  too  shy  to  allow  of  more  direct  ap 
proach.  She  was  almost  always  to  be  found  in  some 
sunny,  sheltered  corner,  her  little  head  bent,  her  eyes 
upon  her  lap.  I  think  I  never  once  saw  her  playing. 

Then  I  missed  her;  even  before  Christmas  it  was, 
when  she  was  to  have  gone  home  to  her  mother. 

I  stopped  the  buggy  by  the  terrace  wall.  The  blue- 
clad  figures  were  stirring  about  at  their  quiet  play. 


Teepee  Neighbors  101 

Bridget  came  and  climbing  up  to  the  step  of  the  buggy 
thrust  her  little  chapped  hand  into  mine. 

"Where's  the  little  homesick  one?"  I  asked. 

She  looked  up  at  me  for  an  instant  with  her  deprecat 
ing  smile.  Then  her  face  went  suddenly  grave. 

"Nancy?" 

"Yes." 

"She's— dead." 

"Oh!"  I  cried,  "but  she  never  coughed—" 

"No,  she  never  cough.  She  just  die.  Two  days 
ago  her  mother  come  for  her.  She  die  in  the  wagon, 
they  say.  I  guess  you  hear  them  cryin'  when  they  drive 
down  past  your  place." 

And  the  little  chapped  hand  still  in  mine,  I  looked 
out  across  the  irrigated,  parti-colored  valley  to  the 
mountains  walling  the  western  sky. 


A  VENTURE  IN  HARD  HEARTS 
ALWAYS  FROM  the  time  I  left  the  reservation  with  him 
except  once — which  time  is  the  occasion  of  the  telling 
of  this  present  anecdote, — he  moved  in  a  sort  of  bliss 
ful  exaltation.  In  his  timid,  repressed  way  he  was  as 
much  beside  himself  as  is  a  new  lover  or  an  artist  in 
the  throes  of  creation.  A  train  even  he  had  never 
seen  until  the  one  which  was  to  take  us  to  Denver 
thundered  dustily  up  to  our  little  Sub-Agency  station, 
and  he,  crowding  behind  me,  clung  with  frantic  hands 
to  my  skirts.  But  when  I  had  hoisted  him  up  the  high 
step  and  we  had  got  fairly  seated  and  were  off,  his 
delight  knew  no  bounds;  his  dark  eyes  twinkled  and 
gleamed,  his  young  mouth  was  quite  awry  with  the 
effort  to  repress  the  joy  that  was  proving  itself  ir 
repressible.  He  snuggled  beside  me  in  the  seat,  peer 
ing  out  of  the  smoke-grimed  window,  bracing  himself 
involuntarily  when  there  seemed  to  be  sudden  dips  and 
rises  in  the  road  ahead  of  us,  and  then  laughing  softly 
at  himself  as  the  train  sped  level  and  serene  across 
them. 

"Who's  that?"  he  would  whisper  as  some  new 
person  whose  appearance  caught  his  eye,  came  in  at  the 
door.  And  he  was  astonished,  even  incredulous,  when 
I  failed  to  be  able  to  answer  so  simple  a  question.  At 
home  on  the  reservation  we  of  course  knew  everyone, 
at  least  by  name  and  appearance. 

102 


Teepee  Neighbors  103 

Before  he  had  left  the  Government  boarding  school 
the  little  boys'  matron  who  supplied  him  from  her 
store  with  a  new  tam-o'-shanter  for  his  travels,  had 
carefully  directed  him  as  to  the  wearing  of  it.  "This 
bow,"  she  had  explained,  "must  always  go  on  the  left 
side."  At  home  his  old  and  much-punctured  sombrero 
with  its  beaded  hat  band  went  on  any  way.  But  now, 
no  matter  what  our  hurry  at  twenty-minute  eating 
stations,  nor  with  what  breathless  haste  we  followed 
the  rush  of  passengers  toward  a  panting  train,  we  must 
needs  pause  till  we  had  found  the  bow  and  were  quite 
sure  which  side  was  the  left  one  and  then  got  the  two 
in  conventional  conjunction. 

To  reach  Denver  the  exigencies  of  train  connections 
required  us  to  stay  over  night  in  Cheyenne.  We  took 
a  room  in  a  nearby  hotel.  Going  to  the  station  in  the 
morning  my  little  boy  looked  back  over  his  shoulder 
with  glowing  eyes. 

"My!"  he  cried.  "Wasn't  that  strange  man  good  to 
let  us  sleep  in  his  house?" 

Once  in  the  train  he  fingered  our  tickets,  eyeing  them 
carefully. 

"How  much  did  you  have  to  pay  for  them?"  he 
asked. 

I  told  him;  the  amount  as  I  remember  it  was  well 
over  ten  dollars. 

He  looked  at  me  with  eyes  of  startled  unbelief. 


IO4  Teepee  Neighbors 

"Why,  you  shouldn't  have  given  all  that  money  for 
them!  They  are  only  pieces  of  paper/' 

He  was  indeed  very  much  impressed  by  the  fact  that 
everything  we  did  required  money;  our  food,  trolleys, 
busses,  everything.  At  home  we  seldom  handled  cash. 
The  trader  and  the  butcher  sent  in  monthly  bills  and 
we  paid  by  cheque,  if  we  were  able,  or  didn't  pay,  in 
the  reverse  case,  and  went  on  buying  "on  jaw  bone," 
as  the  saying  goes  in  Wyoming.  Actual  money  was 
seldom  visible. 

But  the  arrival  in  Denver  was  I  think  the  happiest 
moment  of  all.  Night  had  already  fallen.  The  streets 
were  garish  with  lights,  grouped,  single  or  in  designs, 
marvellous  set-pieces  that  moved  by  magic  power. 
There  was  a  great  clattering  and  crying  of  voices  about 
the  station,  a  pleasant  welcoming  turmoil.  Different, 
indeed,  all  this  to  the  arrival  of  trains  at  our  little  frame 
stations  set  solitary  in  the  midst  of  the  prairie  night, 
their  silence  scarcely  broken  by  the  slipping  away  of 
the  train,  or  their  darkness  cloven  by  the  station- 
master's  single  lantern. 

The  child  almost  forgot  his  timidity,  so  great  was  his 
elation. 

"Is  it  fairyland?"  he  whispered  against  my  elbow. 
And  the  bus  that  bore  us  jolting  to  the  hotel  he  felt 
sure  must  be  a  second  Cinderella's  coach.  He  even 
spoke  in  quite  a  brave,  loud  voice  so  that  our  fellow- 


Teepee  Neighbors  105 

passengers,  the  usual  blase  travelling  men,  became 
suddenly  aware  of  him  and  eyed  him  from  the  height 
of  their  lofty  indifference,  taking  note  of  his  ill-fitting 
Government  clothes  as  well  as  of  his  eager  eyes  set  in 
the  smooth  childish  face. 

One  of  them  even  asked :  "This  the  little  Injun's 
first  trip?" 

And  while  I  assented  the  boy,  becoming  suddenly 
self-conscious  again,  shrank  back  under  the  shadow 
of  my  arm. 

At  the  hotel  he  was  a  little  disturbed  by  the  elevator ; 
the  alligator,  he  called  it.  And,  suddenly  recollecting : 
"Shall  we  have  to  pay  to  ride  in  that  too?"  he 
demanded. 

On  his  account — I  had  brought  him  to  a  doctor  for 
special  treatment — our  stay  bade  fair  to  become  rather 
unexpectedly  extended,  too  much  so  at  any  rate  to 
allow  of  our  remaining  in  the  hotel.  So  the  child  and 
I  went  forth  to  seek  lodgings.  Our  search  proved  to 
be  a  weary  one.  We  progressed  languidly  from  door 
to  door,  from  address  to  address. 

At  last  a  certain  house  opened  to  us,  disclosing  in 
its  doorway  a  kindly- faced  woman. 

"You  have  a  sign  out  advertising  rooms  to  rent." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  But  the  lady  of  the  house  ain't  in 
just  now." 


io6  Teepee  Neighbors 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  anything  about  the 
rooms  ?" 

"Yes  ma'am  but, — excuse  me,  is  that  your  little 
boy?" 

I  said  "yes,"  and  as  I  spoke  my  eyes  went  out  to 
meet  those  of  the  little  boy  who  was  not  mine. 

"Well,  it  ain't  no  use  for  you  to  ask  about  the  rooms 
then.  I'm  real  sorry  about  it  but  she  won't  take  no 
children  in  here." 

So  we  turned  and  went  together  down  the  steps.  I 
confess  that  I  felt  dashed.  I  had  lived  so  long 
amongst  a  people  to  whom  a  child  represented  the 
chief  blessing  of  life  that  I  had  forgotten  the  "white," 
more  civilized,  attitude  toward  them. 

Beside  me  the  lad  walked,  his  head  lowered,  shrunk 
into  himself,  even  withdrawn  somewhat  from  my  pro 
tecting  shadow.  It  was  as  though  the  better  to  bear 
this  new-found  burden  he  walked  alone. 

We  gave  up  our  search  for  that  day  and  boarded  a 
car  for  home.  As  for  myself  other  thoughts  soon 
drove  that  of  our  rebuff  from  my  mind.  This  seemed 
to  be  true  also  of  the  child.  Beside  us  in  the  car  sat 
a  party  of  Swedes  talking  volubly  in  their  own  tongue. 
The  boy  listened  to  them,  all  attention.  He  eyed  them 
up  and  down  carefully  and  appraisingly,  his  dark  gaze 
especially  on  their  blonde  heads,  their  pale  eyes.  Then 
he  turned  his  eager  little  face  up  to  mine. 


Teepee  Neighbors  107 

"They  don't  look  like  Indians  but — what  kind  of 
Indian  are  they  talking?" 

It  never,  I  suppose,  had  occurred  to  him  that  the 
whites  could  have  more  than  the  one  language.  And 
even  as  I  explained,  laughing  at  him  the  while,  I  re 
membered  that  I  had  met  many  of  the  dominant  race 
who  firmly  believed  that  all  tribes  of  Indians  use  a 
common  speech. 

That  night  some  friends  came  in  to  see  us  and  we 
recounted  to  them  our  adventures  of  the  day.  I  did 
the  talking,  for  when  several  persons  were  present  he 
became  far  too  timid  to  undertake  such  an  act  of 
temerity.  He  joined  in  the  conversation  only  with  shy, 
acquiescing  smiles  or  a  "Yes,  ma'am,"  whispered 
tremulously  and  under  great  pressure. 

I  spoke  finally  of  our  last  enquiry  and  the  subsequent 
rebuff.  Then  I  felt  him  straighten  himself  beside  me ; 
his  eyes  grew  hard,  his  mouth  stiffened. 

"What  do  you  think  she  said  to  us?"  he  cried  out, 
his  timidity  lost  at  last  in  the  greater  indignation. 
"She  told  us  they  didn't  like  children!  They  didn't 
want  them !  They  didn't  want  me !" 

My  friends,  who  of  course  did  not  realize  the  Indian 
point  of  view,  could  not  feel  all  the  enormity  of  the 
statement.  They  murmured  polite  sympathy. 

The  child  searching  them  with  those  eyes  grown 


io8  Teepee  Neighbors 

suddenly  hard,  sighed  at  length,  drooped  a  little,  nestled 
against  my  arm. 

Subsequently,  from  his  cot  drawn  close  to  mine,  and 
several  times  repeated  during  the  night,  I  heard  a  long 
trembling  sigh.  Even  in  his  dreams,  it  seemed,  the 
disturbing  discovery  was  pursuing  him  that  life  was 
turning  out  to  be  not  just  what  he  had  always  thought 
it.  He  was  indeed  beginning  the  toil  of  the  long  in 
evitable  years  of  unlearning. 


THE  THROWN-AWAY  BABY 

SAY  that  he  is  getting  better,  and  some  that 
he  is  worse,  and  one  old  woman  even  told  me  that  he 
was  dead.  She  talked  with  signs,  but  I  am  sure  that  is 
what  she  meant." 

"Who  is  dead?"  asked  the  girl.  She  hesitated  before 
she  spoke,  dropped  her  eyes,  holding  them  resolutely 
down.  She  was  obviously  evading  my  implied  question. 

"You  know  very  well,  my  dear;  the  Gros  Ventre 
boy  who  was  shot  in  that  drinking  scrape  somewhere 
around  Lost  Wells.  The  Agency  doctor  saw  him 
and  reported  that  the  bullet  was  still  in  him.  But  the 
medicine  woman  claims  that  she  had  really  got  it  out." 

"She  did  take  it  out."  The  black  eyes  challenged 
me  steadily.  "My  father  he  seen  her  do  it." 

"But  really  the  doctor  ought  to  know." 

"It  was  all  nasty  from  the  wound." 

"She  played  a  trick  on  you.  Don't  talk  to  me! 
Anybody  who  claims  to  be  able  to  change  rocks  into 
potatoes . . .  And  didn't  she  tell  the  Indians  plainly  at 
the  Fourth  of  July  celebration  that  she  was  in  league 
with  the  devil  and  that  it  was  his  power — his  'medicine' 
— that  helped  her?" 

"But  she  probe  for  it.  There  were  a  lot  of  'em  there. 
They  seen  it,  all  of  'em." 

"Probed  with  what?" 

109 


no  Teepee  Neighbors 

"A  willow  stick." 

"Oh!    Oh!" 

"At  first  he  get  better,  but  after  a  while,  worse." 

"After  the  probing.     Naturally!" 

The  girl  relaxed  her  vigilant  expression ;  she  laughed, 
even.  "I  guess  so." 

"And  is  he  really  dead?" 

She  nodded.  "That's  what  they  say.  The  whole 
camp's  moved." 

"The  way  they  move  when  any  one  dies?" 

"Yes." 

"That  old  devil!  She  has  just  as  good  as  killed 
him." 

"Oh,  my!" 

"With  a  willow  stick.    Ah!  the  poor  young  man!" 

The  girl  put  up  her  hands  and  smoothed  her  sleek 
hair  from  its  straight,  red-painted  parting  to  the  tips 
of  her  buckskin-tied  braids. 

"If  her  medicine  is  so  strong  why  didn't  she  cure 
him?" 

She  peered  up  at  me  from  under  her  hands.  "The 
Indians  say  everybody  she  takes  care  of  dies." 

"And  yet  they  always  have  her !" 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  then  shot  me  a  look  from 
under  her  lids.  "I  guess  they're  afraid  of  her,"  she 
said. 

"And  well  they  may  be  if  those  are  her  methods." 


Teepee  Neighbors  in 

She  gave  a  quick  little  sigh.    "You  know  her  girl?" 

"Yes." 

"She  just  got  married." 

"I  know." 

"That's  a  white  girl." 

"So  they  say.  She  always  paints  so  much  you  can't 
tell  it  though." 

"And  she  always  say  she  'Rapahoe.  She  gets 
awful  mad  if  you  call  her  white." 

"She  is  white  though,  isn't  she?" 

"Oh  yes!  But  even  that  old  woman  won't  let  on. 
She  always  tellin'  that  girl,  'A  box,  that's  your 
mother/  " 

"And  that  old  woman  brought  her  up  from  a  little 
brand-new  baby?" 

"Just  born." 

"Do  tell  me  the  story." 

"That  happened  eighteen  years  ago,  I  guess.  She 
little  bit  younger  than  me.  The  Indians  they  all  camp 
'round  the  Agency  that  time.  It's  winter,  and  the  creek 
is  froze  so  they  have  to  go  for  water  up  above  that 
bend  where  there's  a  hole  in  the  ice.  Every  little  while 
they  passin'  up  and  down  that  lane  behind  the  Agency 
houses.  Then  one  day  there's  a  big  new  box  out  there 
close  to  the  fence.  Just  after  they  first  see  it  there 
my  mother-in-law  she  walkin'  up  along  the  road  to  get 
water." 


112  Teepee  Neighbors 

"Which  woman  is  that?" 

"Don't  you  know?  She's  the  one  with  them  yellow 
eyes.  That's  what  they  calls  her  in  the  camps,  'Yellow 
Eyes.'  She's  got  a  real  name  beside  that  though.  'Many 
Horses/  I  guess  you'd  call  it." 

"I  know  her,  I  think." 

"Well,  when  she  got  to  that  box  she  stop  and  look 
down — then  she  pretty  near  drop  her  bucket.  First 
she  jump  back,  then  she  bend  down  again.  She  lean 
'way  over  and  she  look,  and  look.  Then  she  turn 
'round  quick — she  don't  go  on  for  the  water — she  just 
run  back  to  camp.  My  grandmother  and  some  of 
them  women  they  see  how  funny  she  actin'  and  they 
kind  o'  go  out  to  meet  her.  'What's  the  matter?  What's 
the  matter,  Yellow  Eyes?'  they  say.  Then  she  begin 
to  cry,  and  she  point  to  that  box,  and  she  say,  'It's  in 
that  box.  It's  in  that  box.'  And  all  them  women  cry 
out,  'What,  Yellow  Eyes?  What?'  'Somethin'  pale,' 
she  say,  'Way  down  in  a  corner.'  Then  she  look  up 
at  them  all.  'It's  a  white  baby,  that's  what  it  is.  And 
it  ain't  even  got  rags  'round  it.'  She  have  to  stop  to 
wipe  her  tears.  'But  is  it  'live?'  'Yes.  I  seen  it  movin' 
and  I  hear  it  making  a  little  noise?'  And  the  women 
all  cry,  'Ah-ee !  Ah-ee !  What  shall  we  do  ?  A  new 
born  baby  and — thrown  away !  A  white  baby !'  Then 
they  all  begin  rememberin'.  'Must  belong  to  that  girl 
livin'  in  the  second  house.  We  all  see  she  going  to 


Teepee  Neighbors  .      113 

born  a  baby — and  she  always  wrappin'  herself  up  and 
hidin' — We  never  noticed  no  man  'round. — Her  old 
mother  she  looked  mean.  Guess  it  was  the  mother 
throw  that  baby  away.'  Then  they  all  say,  'Ah-ee! 
Ah-ee!'  some  more,  and  them  that's  cryin'  they  wipe 
their  eyes  with  their  hands. 

"Then  that  old  medicine  woman  come — only  then 
she  wasn't  old  nor  a  medicine  woman — and  she  say, 
'Why,  what's  the  matter?'  Everybody  begin  talkin'  at 
once,  and  pointin'  to  that  box.  She  laugh,  and  she  put 
her  hands  over  her  ears  'cause  she  can't  hear  them,  all 
talkin'  so  loud  and  fast.  But  she  see  the  box,  and  she 
think  if  she  go  over  and  look  in  it  then  maybe  she 
understand.  She  walk  that  way  takin'  long  steps,  and 
all  the  women  followin'  long  after  her.  She  stoop 
down  too — then  she  jump  back  and  she  cry  out.  Next 
she  dive  down  again  and  she  pick  up  that  little  naked, 
thrown-away  baby  in  her  hands,  and  she  hold  it  right 
up  in  the  sunlight,  and  she  turn  it  all  'round  and  look 
at  it  every  way.  Then  she  raise  her  eyes  to  them 
Agency  houses,  and  her  face  get  mighty  mean;  she 
turn  toward  them  other  women,  and  last  she  look  back 
at  the  baby.  'A  little  girl/  she  say.  Then  she  speak  to 
her.  'Well,  baby/  she  say,  'this  box  I  guess  must  be 
your  mother,  only  she  don't  seem  to  take  care  of  you. 
And  these  women/  she  say,  and  she  look  them  all  up 
and  down,  hard-like,  'they  let  you  lie  shiverin'  and 


ii4  Teepee  Neighbors 

freezin'  here  while  they  cryin'  like  a  pack  o*  coyotes. 
I  guess  I  be  a  better  mother  to  you  than  that  fool  box 
or  them  fool  coyotes/  She  put  that  baby  inside  her 
shawl,  against  her  breast,  and  real  slow  and  smilin'  she 
walk  past  them  women,  never  turnin'  her  eyes,  and 
right  back  to  the  camp." 

"And  what  did  she  do?"  I  cried.    "Where  did  she 
get  milk  for  it?     She  had  no  cow,  I  suppose,  and  no 
money  with  which  to  buy  canned  milk  at  the  store." 
Out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  the  girl  smiled  at  me 
cannily.    "Oh !    She  just  go  where  there  bese  mothers 
with  babies,"  she  said. 
"And  it  lived !" 
"It's  nearly  as  old  as  me." 

"I  heard  that  long  afterwards  the  real  mother  tried 
to  get  it  back." 

"Yes,  she  come  to  that  old  woman's  tent,  she  even 
bring  an  interpreter  with  her.  When  that  medicine 
woman  see  that  white  mother  comin'  she  lift  up  the 
back  of  the  tent,  and  she  push  that  little  girl  under  it. 
'Go  down  to  the  willows/  she  say,  'and  hide.  There's 
some  bad  folks  comin'.  Maybe  they  wantin'  to  steal 
you.  Don't  you  come  back  till  I  call  you/ 

"Well,  that  white  woman  come  in  and  the  first  thing 
she  do  she  look  all  'round  that  tent,  quick.  The  med 
icine  woman  she  pull  her  shawl  up  over  her  head  so 


Teepee  Neighbors  115 

her  face  way  back  in  the  shadow  and  she  never  take 
her  eyes  off  that  mother. 

"Then  that  woman  she  make  herself  a  little  bit  stiff, 
and  she  say  right  out,  'They  tell  me  you  got  my  daugh 
ter.'  That  old  woman  she  like  the  straight  way  that 
woman  speak,  but  you  see  she  love  that  thrown-away 
baby  so  much  she  awful  'fraid;  she  just  shakin'  inside. 
'I  got  a  daughter  myself.  But  I  not  know  you  got  one/ 
The  mother  she  look  at  her  hard,  hard.  'No/  that  med 
icine  woman  say.  'Seven  years  ago  I  find  my  daughter, 
a  little  thrown-away  baby,  in  a  box.  She  only  new 
born,  but  I  don't  see  no  other  mother  for  her  but  just 
that  box.  Somebody  got  a  bad  heart/  she  say,  'can 
throw  away  little  live  babies,  just  like  blind  puppies,  or 
trash/  That  mother  she  put  her  hands  up  and  she 
cover  her  face.  'That's  a  white  baby/  the  foster-mother 
say,  'but  Indian  hands  washed  her,  Indian  womans  sew 
for  her,  Indian  mothers'  milk  make  her  fat,  Indian  love 
keep  her  'live.  That  little  girl  got  white  skin,  but  her 
heart — that's  Indian  heart/  Then  she  stop  'cause  that 
mother  kind  o'  groan,  then  take  her  hands  down  from 
her  face  and  stare  and  stare  at  that  Indian  woman. 
That  woman  stare  at  her.  Afterwhile  that  mother  she 
turn  'round  and  she  put  out  her  hand  and  begin  feelin' 
for  that  door-flap,  same  as  if  she  be  blind.  Once  like 
she  going  to  speak  she  look  back  over  her  shoulder; 
then  that  old  woman  see  that  she  cryinV 


THE  CAPTURE  OF  EDMUND 
GOES-IN-LODGE 

THEY  RANGED  themselves  in  an  awkward,  bashful  row, 
three  half -grown  boys,  their  hats  in  their  fumbling 
fingers.  Being  Indian  boys  they  stood  in  silence,  words 
struggling  with  their  shyness  for  utterance.  The  dis 
ciplinarian,  his  pen  still  in  his  hand,  half  turned  in  his 
chair  and  looked  at  them  over  his  glasses.  "Well?"  he 
said. 

The  middle  boy,  the  one  who  showed  in  his  skin  and 
his  hair  an  admixture  of  "white"  blood,  spoke :  "We 
'Rapahoe  boys  are  'shamed  of  Edmund  Goes-in- 
Lodge."  His  voice  was  low  and  deep,  the  intonation 
peculiar. 

"And  well  you  may  be!"  cried  the  disciplinarian 
cordially.  "I'm  ashamed  of  h'im  myself." 

He  waited  for  them  to  speak  again,  but  they  stood 
mute.  "Well?"  he  interrogated  again. 

"Mr.  Knight,  us  boys,  we  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you'd 
let  us  be  absent  from  Sunday  School  and  dinner  today. 
We  goin'  down  there  to  his  father's  and  we  goin'  cap 
ture  him  and  bring  him  back.  We  got  a  fine  plan,  Mr. 
Knight." 

The  disciplinarian  laughed;  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  enjoyed  the  joke  to  the  full.  Then  he  laid 
down  his  pen — and  laughed  again. 

116 


Teepee  Neighbors  117 

"Capture  Edmund, — the  worst  boy  in  the  school — 
you  three  kids !  With  all  the  Indian  police  after  him 
and  his  old  warchief  of  a  father  doing  all  he  can  to  get 
him  back,  or  claiming  to,  anyway.  Heap  crazy,  every 
one  of  you!"  and  he  laughed  again. 

The  boys  grinned  and  in  laughing  forgot  something 
of  their  shyness. 

"Honest,  Mr.  Knight,  we  can  do  it.  We've  got  a 
fine  plan,  sure  we  have." 

"Well,  let's  have  the  fine  plan." 

"We  goin'  down  to  Goes-in-Lodge's  this  mornin'  on 
our  ponies.  Me  and  Roy's  goin'  to  ride  together,  and 
Chester's  got  his  big  black  horse.  We  goin'  tell 
Edmund's  mother  we  runnin'  away  too,  then  she  tell 
us  where's  Edmund.  Then  we'll  tell  him,  'Come  on, 
let's  go  up  in  them  Bad  Lands  across  the  river  and  play 
awhile/  We'll  say,  'Don't  bring  no  horse;  you  just 
jump  on  that  black  one  behind  Chester.'  We'll  have 
a  good,  new  raw-hide  rope  with  us;  Chester  he's  got 
one.  Well,  out  there  we'll  play  awhile,  have  lots  of 
fun;  all  the  time  we'll  be  workin'  up  the  creek  to  the 
next  ford  above  Goes-in-Lodge's,  the  one  at  Black 
Man's  place,  I  guess  you  know  it.  Then  when  we  get 
near  to  that  ford  with  the  hills  between  us  and  his 
father's  place  we'll  begin  to  say  'We're  gettin'  hungry/ 
and  'Let's  go  back  and  get  some  dinner/  Then  Chester, 
he'll  say  to  Edmund,  'You  jump  on  my  horse  first. 


n8  Teepee  Neighbors 

You  sit  in  the  saddle  and  I'll  ride  behind  you.'  Edmund, 
he'll  like  ridin'  that  way,  he'll  jump  up  quick.  Then 
Chester'll  get  up  behind  him.  Me  and  Roy  we'll  have 
our  horse  right  close,  but  we  won't  get  on  him.  We'll 
be  kind  o'  foolin'  with  the  cinch.  We'll  have  the  rope 
tied  on  our  saddle,  not  on  Chester's,  and  while  I'm 
pullin'  up  the  cinch,  Roy'll  be  untying  the  rope.  Then 
when  Chester  has  got  up  behind  Edmund  he'll  give  a 
kind  of  yell  and  he'll  grab  Edmund  right  around  his 
arms  and  he'll  hold  him  tight.  Chester,  he  ain't  so  tall 
but  he's  awful  strong,  he  can  sure  hold  Edmund  for  a 
while  anyhow.  Then  me  and  Roy'll  come  quick  with 
the  rope  and  we'll  tie  Edmund's  feet  together  under 
the  horse  and  we'll  wind  the  rope  around  him  to  hold 
his  arms  down.  Then  Chester,  he'll  reach  around  him 
and  he'll  take  the  lines.  We'll  get  on  our  horse,  Roy 
and  me, — and  we'll  be  up  here  by  five  o'clock." 

"By  all  the  powers!"  gasped  the  astonished  dis 
ciplinarian.  "W^ho  on  earth  ever  thought  all  that  up? 
Why,  it's  wonderful!" 

"All  of  us,  I  guess,"  said  Jack,  but  he  grinned  with 
suspicious  glee. 

"Boys,"  the  man  began,  seriously  now,  "you  never 
could  put  it  through.  Edmund  would  see  through  you, 
and  he's  mighty  mean  when  he  gets  mad.  I  sure  want 
to  give  him  the  licking  that's  coming  to  him,  but  I  don't 
want  him  to  get  the  chance  to  try  the  licking  on  you 


Teepee  Neighbors  119 

first.  I  know  Chester  is  strong,  but  I  doubt  if  he  could 
hold  him.  Besides  that,  if  that  old  Sioux  mother  of 
his  ever  got  her  hands  on  any  of  you,  there  wouldn't 
be  enough  left  to  bring  you  home,  and  'that's  no  sheep- 
herder's  dream!'  I  remember  the  time,  and  so  do  you, 
that  she  came  here  and  pulled  a  knife  on  the  agent 
because  her  girl  was  sick  in  the  school  here  and  he 
wouldn't  let  her  take  her  home.  You're  three  of  my 
best  boys  and  I  sure  couldn't  afford  to  lose  you." 

They  all  grinned  this  time.     Again  the  spokesman 
took  up  his  plea. 

"Mr.  Knight,  if  we  don't  get  that  boy  there  can't  no 
police  man  never  get  him.  His  father  and  brothers 
has  got  the  best  horses  among  the  'Rapahoes.  His 
mother  watches  for  him  and  tells  him  when  she  sees 
anybody  comin'  down  the  road.  Then  he  just  goes  out 
into  the  Bad  Lands  and  hides  out.  He's  got  a  cache  up 
there.  He  could  stay  for  weeks.  Everybody's  'fraid 
o'  him,  he's  so  mean,  and  'fraid  o'  his  mother,  too.  His 
father  he  tells  him  to  come  back  to  school  but  his 
mother,  she  helps  him  so  he  don't  have  to.  Mr.  Knight, 
you  know  in  the  beginnin'  of  the  year  the  Agent  told  us 
if  we'd  stop  the  runnin'  away  in  this  school  we  could  all 
keep  our  ponies  in  the  school  pasture  and  be  free  to  go 
home  Saturday  and  Sunday  afternoons.  We  sure 
don't  want  him  to  take  that  privilege  away  from  us  on 
account  o'  Edmund.  He  said  he  would  if  the  boys 


I2O  Teepee  Neighbors 

began  runnin'  away  again,  and  Edmund  he's  the  first 
boy  to  go.  We're  'shamed  of  him.  You  let  us  try  to 
bring  him  back.  You'll  see ;  we  can." 

"By  Jove,"  said  the  disciplinarian,  "You're  a  lot  of 
good  sports,  every  one  of  you.  Go  ahead  and  get  him. 
You're  excused  from  everything  till  you  show  up 
again.  But  mind,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  at 
them,  "don't  you  three  run  away  on  me !" 

They  were  gone  on  the  instant,  down  through  the 
basement  to  pick  up  saddle  blankets,  bridles  and  rope ; 
their  saddles  were  lying  out  in  the  pasture.  Boys  of 
all  sizes  to  eighteen  years  of  age,  were  scattered  about 
shining  their  Sunday  shoes,  giving  their  hair  an  extra 
wet  dab,  assisting  little  ones,  new  from  the  camps,  in 
the  difficulties  of  donning  Sunday  clothes,  urging  the 
wearing  of  the  shirt  inside  the  trousers,  so  contrary  to 
the  preconceived  Indian  idea  of  the  fitness  of  things. 
Envious  eyes,  nudges,  jokes,  followed  the  exit  of  the 
three  conspirators. 

They  caught  their  horses  and  started  in  the  manner 
planned,  riding  at  a  good  lope  down  the  valley  road. 
The  prairies  were  gay  with  flowers,  growing  between 
the  grey  sage  bushes ;  gentian,  lark-spur,  Indian  paint 
brush ;  a  dozen  different  parti-colored  varieties.  Down 
the  dusty  road  the  boys  passed,  free  in  the  dazzling 
sunshine.  Their  manner,  their  talk  were  quiet  enough, 
most  of  their  energy,  however,  was  centered  in  their 


Teepee  Neighbors  121 

eyes  and  ears,  in  that  power  of  observation  so  marked 
in  their  race.  They  swung  lightly  to  the  horses'  pace 
with  strong  easy  muscles.  The  feeling  of  loyalty  to 
the  school,  to  their  tribe's  best  welfare,  was  strong  in 
them  as  was  also  a  boy's  love  of  mischief. 

A  couple  of  miles  below  the  school  at  Squaw  Greek, 
a  little  tributary  of  the  river,  where  they  pulled  up  to 
let  their  horses  drink,  a  contretemps  befell  them. 

An  old  gnarled  man  on  a  pinto  pony  rode  up  to  them 
from  the  opposite  direction  and  accosted  them.  He 
spoke  quietly  enough  in  the  deep  Indian  voice  with  its 
almost  monotonous  intonation. 

"Are  you  three  running  away?" 

It  was  Jack  sitting  in  front  on  the  smaller  pony,  who 
answered.  By  common  consent  the  others  waited  for 
him  to  take  the  lead.  He  humped  himself  a  little  as 
he  sat  on  the  pony,  his  head  low,  so  that  the  brim  of 
his  sombrero  shielded  his  face  from  the  old  man's  eyes ; 
he  grumbled  out  a  sort  of  acquiescence. 

Rock  knew  his  duty.  A  big  metal  star  inscribed  in 
plain  letters  "Indian  Police"  did  not  rest  for  nothing 
on  his  breast,  neither  was  it  for  nothing  that  he 
received  from  a  munificent  Government  the  sum  of 
ten  dollars  a  month  for  the  keep  of  himself  and  the 
horse  he  must  furnish,  the  time  he  must  give,  the  cour 
age  he  must  not  fail  in,  the  risk,  even  to  life  itself,  he 


122  Teepee  Neighbors 

must  frequently  assume.  An  old  but  useful  six-shooter 
sagged  in  its  holster  on  his  hip. 

"You  must  go  back,"  he  said  quietly. 

"We're  going  down  to  Edmund  Goes-in-Lodge's," 
said  the  shameless  Jack. 

The  man  sized  up  the  three  with  his  old  keen 
eyes.  "Edmund's  no  good,"  he  said.  "Better  go 
quietly  back  to  school.  Turn  around  now.  Go  on." 

No  one  moved.  There  was  silence.  The  horses 
splashed  in  the  shallow  ford.  Chester's  big  black 
pulled  at  the  lush  grass  along  the  edge,  the  sound  of  his 
crunching  teeth  and  jingling  bit  filled  the  pause.  The 
leather  of  the  old  Indian's  saddle  creaked  with  his 
horse's  breathing. 

"Singing  Rock" — Jack,  who  of  course  spoke  in  his 
Indian  tongue,  used  the  full  name — "we  can't  go  back  ; 
we  won't  go  without  Edmund.  If  you  take  us  back, 
Mr.  Knight  will  beat  us.  Besides  that  you  know  that  no 
one  will  ever  will  be  able  to  catch  Edmund.  But  you 
come  with  us  down  to  Goes-in-Lodge's ;  we'll  go  in 
ahead  of  you  and  we'll  talk  to  Edmund  and  get  him 
to  ride  with  us  a  ways  up  the  road.  You  can  hide 
yourself  some  where  and  when  you  hear  us,  you  can 
just  come  out  and  pull  your  gun  on  him.  Then  we'll 
all  go  back  with  you.  We  say  we'll  do  this  and  we'll 
surely  do  it,  but  we  can't  go  back  to  the  school  without 
Edmund." 


Teepee  Neighbors  123 

Whence  the  boy  evolved  this  plan,  why  indeed  he 
evolved  it  at  all,  he  would  have  been  the  last  one  able 
to  explain  it  to  you.  It  was  as  natural  for  him  to  meet 
strategy  foiled  with  new  strategy,  as  for  the  beaver  to 
build  his  symmetrical  dam,  the  bird  his  balanced  nest. 

The  old  man  surveyed  the  three  critically.  Here 
was  a  chance,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  to  do  double  duty 
and  with  assistance  at  that.  The  boys,  as  he  knew,  did 
not  exaggerate  when  they  said  that  the  police  were 
quite  unable  to  cope  with  the  problem  of  Edmund's 
capture.  Well,  they  were  good  boys,  as  had  been  their 
fathers  before  them,  his  friends ;  he  would  trust  them. 

"Come  on/'  he  said,  and  wheeled  his  pony  about. 
They  splashed  out  of  the  ford  behind  him. 

Before  they  reached  Goes-in-Lodge's — a  good  ten 
miles  down  the  valley — they  left  the  old  police  man 
safely  sheltered  from  sight  by  the  bulk  of  a  point  of 
land  that  at  a  certain  place  crowded  the  road  to  one 
side  against  a  wire  fence. 

As  they  approached  the  little  huddled  cabins,  tents 
and  corrals,  that  made  up  Goes-in-Lodge's  camp,  the 
conspirators  saw  a  figure  cross,  from  the  inside,  the 
little  window  of  the  principal  cabin;  Edmund's 
mother  reconnoitering,  no  doubt.  The  boys  jumped 
from  their  horses  and  went  into  the  house.  Only 
Goes-in-Lodge's  immediate  family  was  there.  The 
old  man  smoking  his  Indian  pipe  and  eyeing  them 


124  Teepee  Neighbors 

gravely  sat  on  the  side  of  his  home-made  bunk.  The 
run-away  and  his  mother  began  laughing  and  joking  at 
sight  of  them.  Edmund  said  to  them  in  English, 
"Guess  you  boys  made  a  mistake,  this  ain't  your 
Sunday  School  class,"  followed  by  much  giggling. 
Somebody  cocked  an  eye  out  of  the  window  at  the  sun. 
"It's  'way  past  Sunday  school  time ;  I  feel  more  like  it 
was  dinner  time." 

The  old  woman  laughed,  taking  the  hint,  got  up 
and  began  bustling  around  the  stove.  She  was  indeed 
in  an  excellent  humor,  being  mightily  pleased  with  her 
son,  her  youngest  born,  and  his  cleverness  in  out-wit 
ting  the  nagging  Agency.  "It's  all  right  to  have  him 
go  to  school  and  learn  something.  I  don't  want  him  to 
grow  up  to  be  just  a  'buck.'  I  want  him  to  read  and 
write  and  know  farming  like  his  brothers ;  but  I  won't 
have  him  kept  in  that  school  as  though  it  was  a  jail." 

They  all  sat  about  on  the  floor  enjoying  the  little 
feast;  fried  bread,  and  meat  served  with  that  great 
Indian  delicacy  "cherry  gravy";  there  was  also  weak 
sweetened  coffee.  At  the  end  Jack  got  to  his  feet  and 
remembering  his  manners,  "We  all  ate  good,"  he  said 
with  sincerity,  "Let's  go  out  now  and  have  some  fun. 
Get  your  horse,  Edmund,  and  come  along."  They  sad 
dled  up;  Edmund's  mother,  throwing  scraps  to  the 
dogs,  smiled  at  them  from  the  doorway. 

That  they  lacked  in  loyalty  to  their  hosts  in  thus 


Teepee  Neighbors  125 

decoying  the  boy  into  a  trap  never  could  have  occurred 
to  their  minds.  They  were  playing  a  game  as  was 
Edmund.  The  only  question  was,  who  would  win? 

They  lured  their  victim  up  the  road;  it  was  easy 
enough  to  do  so.  In  time,  they  rounded  the  point  of 
land — there  stood  Rock.  He  had  not  deemed  it  even 
necessary  to  take  the  six-shooter  from  its  holster.  The 
star  of  authority  gleamed  upon  his  breast.  The  run 
away  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  They  all  drew 
rein. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  old  man,  "I've  got  you  all  now. 
If  you  keep  loping  you'll  be  at  school  in  time  to  report 
at  five  o'clock."  He  fell  in  behind  them  and  rode 
squarely  in  their  dust  all  the  ten  miles  to  the  school. 
The  boys  preserved  a  neutral  silence.  The  three  who 
really  understood  the  situation  felt  it  not  incumbent  on 
them  to  explain ;  the  true  captive  was  upbraiding  him 
self  furiously,  if  silently,  for  the  stupid  ease  with  which 
he  had  let  himself  be  taken.  Truth  to  tell  the  three 
conspirators  were  feeling  a  little  uncomfortable.  For 
many  years  Edmund  had  been  the  acknowledged  leader 
and  "bad  boy"  of  the  school;  it  was  only  natural  to 
suppose  that  he  would  have  his  innings  yet.  The  quick 
lope  of  the  little  bare- footed  ponies  counted  off  the 
miles. 

The  arrival  at  the  school  was  without  dramatic  effect. 
Mr.  Knight  was  on  the  watch.  Rock  gave  him  his  ver- 


126  Teepee  Neighbors 

sion  of  the  affair.  Mr.  Knight,  looking  into  the  anxious 
eyes  of  the  three,  gleefully  understood.  The  victors 
themselves  said  never  a  word,  not  even  to  him:  were 
they  white  men  that  they  need  make  explanation  with 
words  ? 

"All  right,"  said  the  disciplinarian.  "Rock,  go  into 
the  office.  You  three  put  up  your  horses.  Edmund, 
come  with  me." 

The  boy  took  his  thrashing  stoically  though  he 
winced  under  it,  for  of  its  kind  it  was  a  good  one. 
When  it  was  over  Mr.  Knight  left  him  in  the  dingy 
lock-up  of  the  school  and  went  to  fetch  him  his  supper. 
On  his  return  as  he  opened  the  door  the  boy  lifted  his 
head  and  searched  with  eager  eyes  the  space  behind  the 
man. 

"Where's  the  others?" 
"The  others?" 

"Yes,  when  are  you  going  to  lick  them  three?" 
"Why,  Edmund,  don't  you  understand?" 
It  was  clear  that  he  did  not.    Mr.  Knight  set  down 
the  supper  tray  and,  as  gently  as  might  be,  explained. 
The  boy  stared  at  him.    Incredulity  was  in  his  eyes  and 
a  new  expression,  could  it  be  it  fear?     He  spoke  no 
word.     He  turned  away  from  his  jailor,  the  haunted 
look  deepened.     Then  as  though  suddenly  suffocated 
by  its  lack  of  space  he  strode  across  the  little  room. 


Teepee  Neighbors  127 

He  wheeled  about.  For  an  instant  the  man  half 
thought  that  he  was  going  to  strike  him. 

"They  made  a  plan?"  He  spoke  between  shut  teeth. 
"You  let  them  go  ?"  Although  he  was  plainly  impatient 
of  the  fact  there  was  no  doubt  but  what  his  voice  was 
trembling.  He  shook  his  head  over  the  intolerable 
realization.  He  frowned  above  his  sharpened  features. 

"And  Rock  ?    He  was  in  that  plan  too  ?" 

"Oh  no.  They  met  him  by  chance  and  they  fooled 
him  also.  That  was  part  of  their  fun,  I  guess." 

"Their— fun/' 

The  boy's  face  went  grey,  he  put  out  a  hand,  groping 
for  the  one  chair  in  the  room.  Finding  it  he  sank  into 
it,  a  huddled  heap. 

"Here's  your  supper,  Edmund." 

But  he  did  not  answer.  Mr.  Knight,  a  little  uncer 
tainly,  went  toward  the  door.  "He  didn't  look  like  that 
when  I  licked  him." 

The  huddled  figure  hunched  his  shoulders,  twisted  a 
little  as  he  sat.  Then  not  even  waiting  for  the  sound 
of  retreating  steps,  a  great  sob,  that  was  half  a  cry, 
wrenched  him. 

After  all  he  was  only  a  boy. 

"Edmund..." 

"Go  'way.    Oh !     Go  'way." 

And  for  very  shame's  sake  the  man  went,  tiptoeing 


128  Teepee  Neighbors 

out  of  the  door.    But  the  reign  of  Edmund  was  over. 
The  school's  "bad  boy"  was  in  the  dust. 


"IN  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  BLIND" 

HER  "FOLKS,"  as  she  called  them,  looked  at  her  pa 
tiently,  smiling  a  little.  They  said  they  had  always 
thought  that  her  eyes  looked  queer. 

The  little  half-breed  girl  smiled  too,  twisting  a  cor 
ner  of  her  blue  spreading  "hickory"  apron,  a  dimple 
in  each  smooth  cheek,  her  mouth  soft  and  warm  as 
though  from  her  mother's  recent  kisses.  But  it  was 
only  a  memory  that  kept  it  so,  for  the  mother  was  dead ; 
and  the  eyes,  with  their  oddly  heavy  lids,  certainly  did 
look  "queer." 

"We  are  going  to  Denver  soon,"  we  said.  "Might 
we  not  take  her  there  with  us  ?  There  are  doctors  there 
who  care  only  for  eyes.  Do  you  think  she  would  be 
too  homesick?" 

They  lifted  incredulous  eyes  to  us.  "Oh !  she 
wouldn't  be  homesick."  They  stared  at  the  object  of 
such  strange  fortune. 

And  the  child  stood,  twisting  her  apron,  the  little 
smile  still  awakening  the  dimples  in  her  cheeks. 

"You  goin'  on  the  railroad?" 

The  railroad  had  but  lately  been  built  up  into  our 
part  of  the  country. 

"Why,  yes." 

Then  they  arose  to  the  occasion.  "Sure !  Take  her," 
they  said.  "They  don't  look  right,  them  eyes.  Take 

129 


130  Teepee  Neighbors 

her.  She  won't  be  no  trouble.  She's  a  good  little  thing. 
Now,  Ethel,  mind  you're  good.  Mind  you  don't  make 
no  fuss.  You'll  yet  a  lickin'  when  you  get  back  if  I 
hear  you  do." 

The  little  dimpled  face  and  pretty  eyes  were  lifted 
sweetly. 

"She'll  be  good." 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  little  girl. 

The  doctor  in  Denver  agreed  that  her  eyes  were 
"queer,"  even  as  queer  as  they  looked.  "Trachoma," 
he  threw  at  us  over  his  glasses.  "Better  be  careful 
how  your  own  child  handles  the  things  this  one  touches. 
It's  very  contagious." 

"But,  is  it  curable?" 

"Yes.  She  may  need  an  operation,  and  anyway,  a 
year's  treatment.  The  operation — if  I  decide  on  'it — I 
can  manage  here  easily  enough.  But  the  treatment — is 
there  anyone  up  there  on  the  reservation  who  will 
follow  it  up  faithfully?  That's  her  only  salvation, 
conscientious  regularity  in  giving  the  treatment." 

"There's  a  matron  at  the  Government  school  where 
this  child  is,"  we  said.  "And  there's  a  doctor." 

"A  doctor?    What  kind  of  a  one?" 

His  question  embarrassed  us  a  little.  "Oh,  an 
Agency  doctor;  the  usual  kind." 

"Well  you  can  tell  him  what  I  say.  I'll  give  you  the 
directions." 


Teepee  Neighbors  131 

But  we  knew  better  than  this.  "You'd  better  write  a 
letter  to  him,"  we  ventured.  "Agency  doctors  don't 
always  like  suggestions  from  the  laity." 

He  laughed  a  little.  "I'll  write  the  letter,"  he  said. 
"Anyhow  he  probably  knows  enough  to  realize  that 
the  case  is  a  serious  one." 

But  we  felt  that  we  must  understand  more  fully  than 
this.  "What  if  they  should  somehow  neglect  her  and 
she  should  not  be  cured?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "In  that  case,"  he  said, 
"she'd  go  blind,  that's  all." 

"So  many  do,"  we  murmured. 

"Didn't  your  doctor  up  there  look  at  her  eyes,  ever 
think  they  needed  looking  at,  even?" 

"No." 

He  glanced  at  us  a  trifle  incredulously. 

"There  are  lots  of  blind  people  on  the  reservation, 
children  even." 

He  stared  long  at  the  child.    "I  can  easily  believe  it." 

At  the  end  of  our  visit,  and  fortified  with  our  letter 
to  the  Agency  physician,  we  bore  our  little  girl  back  to 
the  reservation.  To  the  matron  we  unbosomed  our 
selves  at  length. 

"He  said  that  absolutely  she  must  never  use  the 
same  towel  as  any  body  else,  nor  be  allowed  to  sleep 
in  the  same  bed  with  another  child.  The  trouble  is 
very  contagious." 


I32  Teepee  Neighbors 

She  listened  to  us  politely  but  with  unmistakable  in 
difference,  perhaps  incredulity. 

"It's  the  same  disease  that  makes  those  white  eyes 
so  many  of  them  have." 

"Oh." 

"And  this  stuff  is  to  be  used  night  and  morning 
according  to  the  directions,  and  at  least  during  the  rest 
of  this  school  year." 

"The  doctor  told  me.  What  did  you  say  they  call 
it?" 

"Trachoma." 

She  spelled  it  after  us.  It  was  evidently  a  new  word 
to  her. 

"Trachoma?" 

"Yes.  And  that's  one  of  the  diseases  they  shut 
immigrants  out  for,  you  know.  It's  so  contagious." 

"But  it's  curable?" 

"Yes,  with  the  right  treatment,  and  care." 

"I  see." 

We  felt  that  we  had  said  enough. 

"Well,  Ethel  dear,  good-bye." 

The  child  edged  up  close  to  me. 

"Can't  you  thank  her?"  said  the  matron. 

"Thank  you,"  whispered  the  little  girl. 

"It  sure  was  good  of  you  to  take  her,"  vouchsafed 
the  matron. 


Teepee  Neighbors  133 

"Oh!  She  was  no  trouble.  A  dear  little  thing!  If 
it'll  only  cure  her." 

From  that  moment  of  course  the  child  ceased  being 
under  our  control.  But  I  made  frequent  enquiries  of 
her. 

"Night  and  morning?"    I  asked. 

"  'Most  always." 

"Not  really  always?" 

"Sometimes  she  forgets,  I  guess." 

"And  you  use  only  your  own  towel?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"And  you  sleep  by  yourself?" 

She  hung  her  little  head.    "I  sleeps  with  Mamie." 

"But  you  know  you  shouldn't,  dear." 

"She  bese  cold  at  night." 

"Who  told  you  to  sleep  with  her?" 

"Miss  Raney." 

I  went  to  the  matron. 

"But  they  want  to  sleep  together,"  she  said.  "They 
asked  to.  Beside  that  we're  short  of  beds.  And  then 
also  it  saves  bedding.  The  laundry  girls  are  awfully 
over-worked." 

I  went  to  the  doctor. 

"I  leave  all  that  to  the  matron,"  he  said.  "I  really 
cannot  interfere  with  matters  pertaining  entirely  to  her 
own  department." 


134  Teepee  Neighbors 

I  even  went  to  the  agent,  tentatively,  and  very  hum 
bly. 

"You  should  see  the  doctor."  He  was  both  cordial 
and  solicitous.  "He's  the  one  to  control  those  things." 

"Then  you  don't  think  it  best  to  speak  to  Miss  Raney 
yourself?" 

"Frankly,  no,"  he  answered.  "You  see  I  should  be 
interfering  in  the  doctor's  province." 

I  thanked  him  rather  vaguely. 

But  he  checked  me  hastily.  "Rather  I  thank  you," 
he  cried.  "It  is  more  than  good  of  you  to  take  so  much 
interest  in  my  little  charges." 

Long  before  the  end  of  the  year  they  were  not  giving 
her  the  treatment  at  all. 

"But   why,  Ethel?" 

"I  guess  the  bottle's  empty,"  she  said. 


LITTLE  THINGS 
i 

HE  WAS  a  very  small  boy,  and  in  September  they  had 
brought  him,  reluctant,  to  the  boarding  school.  There 
the  authorities  had  scrubbed  and  dressed  him.  He  had 
rather  enjoyed  the  first  of  these  novelties,  though  the 
big  boy  who  worked  over  him,  incited  by  the  matron, 
had  been  none  too  gentle  with  him.  And  he  had  been 
actually  fascinated  by  his  new  and  unfamiliar  clothes ; 
shirt  and  shoes  he  comprehended,  though  the  mystery 
of  stockings  and  garters  and  trousers  was  deep. 

That  first  day  all  went  well  enough  with  him.  It  was 
the  second,  his  first  morning  of  awaking  in  the  long 
dormitory,  that  put  his  powers  to  the  test.  To  begin 
with,  he  felt  as  though  his  bed  were  out  of  doors ;  no 
brooding  teepee  walls  hung  just  beyond  the  reach  of 
his  short  arms,  muting  so  little  the  soft  call  of  the 
prairie  wind.  Here  in  th'is  strange  place  of  space  and 
beds  a  great  bell  clanged ;  then  someone  gruffly  stirred 
him  to  action.  Slowly,  puzzling,  he  applied  his  gar 
ments.  It  helped  a  little  that  so  many  of  them  went  in 
pairs.  His  shirt  he  put  on  last,  leaving  it  dangling 
decently  over  his  trousers,  as  in  the  camps  his  calico 
home-made  shirt-substitute  had  covered  that  part  of 
him  left  bare  where  his  leggings  ceased.  When  he 
took  his  place  in  the  line  formed  to  go  to  the  dining 

135 


136  Teepee  Neighbors 

room  he  felt  himself  so  successfully  apparelled  that 
he  really  could  not  understand  why  the  matron, 
speaking  very  low  and  quick,  pointed  a  finger  at  him, 
just  as  a  big  boy  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  yanked 
him  back  into  the  dormitory. 

Subsequently,  during  breakfast,  he  felt  none  too 
comfortable  with  his  shirt  wadded  thus  tightly  into  the 
top  of  his  nether  garment. 

It  is  so  hard  to  remember  what  you  learned  yester 
day,  and  that  even  when  they  also  spank  you  and  send 
you  back  a  dozen  times  to  the  dormitory  to  readjust 
your  various,  and  apparently  superfluous,  ill-put  parts ! 
It  always  would  seem  illogical  to  him,  he  thought,  to 
have  that  shirt  of  his  curtailed  so  waste  fully. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks  came  a  certain  Satur 
day  when  the  matron,  in  rusty  skirt  and  dressing  jack 
et,  standing  gingerly  upon  the  lowest  step  of  the  stair 
case  directed  the  efforts  of  two  big  boys,  armed  with 
buckets  and  mops. 

In  the  nearby  doorway  appeared  the  little  untidy 
figure  of  a  boy,  one  corner  of  the  bottom  of  his  shirt 
protruded  saucily  above  his  trousers,  his  unlaced  boots 
flapped,  his  recently  cut  hair  bristled.  But  his  eyes 
were  fixed  in  fascinated  incredulity  upon  the  matron; 
from  rusty  skirt  they  ranged  to  hanging  dressing  jack 
et,  fixed  themselves,  glared.  Then  in  joyous,  conscious 
imitation  he  raised  a  stubby  forefinger  and  levelled  it 


Teepee  Neighbors  137 

at  the  matron's  middle.    His  English  came  to  him  as 
an  inspiration. 

"What's  the  matter  you?"  he  cried.    "Shirt-tail  all 
time  hangin'  out !" 


ii 

The  big  girl  wrapped  a  corner  of  her  blue  "hickory" 
apron  about  her  chilly  hands  and  edged  a  little  so  that 
her  back  would  be  more  to  the  wind  that  forced  itself 
in  at  the  door  of  the  girls'  building,  by  which  we  were 
standing. 

"And  when  I  was  beading*  them  moccasins 
for  my  little  sister  last  summer,"  she  continued,  "that 
little  girl  used  to  be  beggin'  me  to  let  her  try  them.  on. 
'Just  try  them  on/  she'd  say,  '  'cause  nobody  don't 
never  bead  moccasins  for  me/  And  then  when  we  all 
got  our  money  last  payment  time,  she  was  beggin'  her 
grandma  to  buy  her  a  little  shawl,  'even  one  o'  them 
sheets,'  she  said.  But  you  know  her  grandma,  she 
can't.  Them  folks,  they  so  poor.  My!  she's  awful 
thin." 

In  the  dormitory  to  the  right  a  child's  voice  screamed 
out  suddenly.  There  followed  the  sound  of  a  scuffle,  of 
two  vigorous  spanks;  anl  then  the  child's  voice  again 
wailing  angrily. 


138  Teepee  Neighbors 

Another  big,  blue-clad  girl  came,  laughing,  from  the 
dormitory.  In  her  hand  she  held  a  pair  of  new,  small, 
clumsy  government  boots.  These  she  lifted  to  my 
view. 

"Four  times  now  I've  taken  these  away  from  that 
kid."  She  laughed  again,  holding  her  hands  over  her 
ears.  "My!  but  can't  she  yell.  Four  times  she  be 
takin'  these  new  boots  to  bed  with  her.  You  see  when 
she  first  come  the  matron  she  didn't  have  no  new  ones 
to  fit  her  so  she  have  to  have  a  worn  pair  left  over  from 
last  year.  So  she  only  just  gettin'  her  new  ones  this 
week.  Now  every  night  she  hide  'em  in  her  bed.  This 
time  she  have  'em  right  on  her  feet  laced  up  tight.  The 
girl  that  sleep  with  her  she  tole  on  her.  My !  them  little 
kids.  They  do  be  such  a  bother." 


in 

By  the  headgate  of  the  lateral  of  the  great  new  irri 
gating  system  of  the  reservation  sat  an  old  man  wrap 
ped  in  a  sheet,  his  summer  blanket.  He  was  watching 
with  contemplative  eye  the  water  sluicing  under  the 
raised  gate. 

A  young  mixed-blood,  mounted  on  a  pony,  stood 
beside  him,  watching  also,  but  professionally,  the  in 
flowing  water. 


Teepee  Neighbors  139 

Said  the  mixed-blood,  with  signs,  "This  is  a  fine 
ditch!" 

The  old  man  assented. 

The  horseman  gazed  across  the  valley,  his  eyes 
following  the  straight  course  of  the  laterals  which 
carried  the  water  at  an  apparently  slightly  rising  grade 
across  the  sage  brush  to  the  canal  on  the  other  side. 

Straight  and  luminous  as  the  flight  of  an  arrow  the 
water  gleamed  in  the  ditches.  Far  up  the  stream  which 
fed  this  whole  irrigating  system,  and  out  of  sight,  were 
built  the  high  masonry  walls  of  the  main  intake. 

The  Indian  followed  the  gaze  of  the  younger  man. 
His  old  eyes  rested  on  the  emerald  of  alfalfa  patches 
across  the  valley,  first  season's  fruit  of  this  new  ditch. 

"Some  day  we'll  have  lots  of  hayfields  down  here/' 
proclaimed  the  horseman. 

Again  the  old  man  assented.  Then  he  eyed  the  ditch- 
rider  curiously.  "That  ditch  over  there  looks  as  though 
it  was  higher  than  this  creek."  His  old  hands  formed 
the  descriptive  signs. 

"Well,  maybe  it  is,"  agreed  the  rider,  condescend 
ingly. 

"A  long  time  ago,  when  I  was  a  young  man,"  mused 
the  old  hands,  "water  used  always  to  run  down  hill." 
A  little  malicious  gleam  crept  into  has  eyes.  "But  the 
white  man,  he's  so  smart  he's  changed  all  that.  Now 
he  makes  it  run  the  other  way." 


A  MAN 

HALF  OF  the  tribe  was  starving  that  winter.  I  am 
afraid  there  was  no  doubt  of  it.  We  heard  it  on  every 
hand.  It  was  just  at  the  time  when  the  blind  step 
daughter  of  Goes-up-Hill  died.  They  said  that  for 
three  days  before  her  end  she  and  her  people  had 
nothing  to  eat  but  dog  meat — no  flour,  no  coffee  even. 
The  snow  was  deep  and  drifted.  The  family  lived 
far  out  in  the  reservation  on  a  little  tributary  of  the 
river.  They  could  not  come  to  the  Agency  for  help 
nor  could  any  of  us  have  got  down  to  them.  In  fact 
we  knew  nothing  of  the  case  until  everything  was  over. 
Mercifully  the  girl  was  ill  for  only  a  few  days.  It  was 
Goes-up-Hill  himself,  his  hair  falling  unkept  over  his 
shoulders,  his  ragged  blanket  pinched  about  his  lean 
form — covered,  that  is,  with  the  Indian  sack  cloth  and 
ashes — who  told  us  about  it.  He  spoke — being  one  of 
the  old  timers  who  knew  no  English — in  signs,  meager, 
but  definite,  even  poetical.  After  he  was  done  with 
his  story  there  was  nothing  for  it  at  so  late  a  day  but 
to  shake  his  old  hand,  to  look  the  sympathy  we  felt. 
Then  came  a  sudden  thaw.  With  the  sound  of  an 
explosion  the  ice  dam  on  another  tributary  went  out. 
It  happened  early  in  the  night.  There  were  some  sheep 
camps  on  the  low  meadows  bordering  the  creek.  The 
sheep  had  been  rounded  up  and  brought  in  off  the 

140 


Teepee  Neighbors  141 

frozen  range  to  wait  the  near  coming  of  the  lambs. 
That  gave  a  few  of  the  Indians  work  in  the  lambing 
pens,  a  very,  very  few.  None  of  them  as  yet,  however, 
had  received  any  pay.  Ah !  the  sheep  that  went  down 
that  night.  Right  over  the  fences  of  their  own  corrals 
the  water  carried  them.  And  as  sheep  are  poor-spir 
ited  creatures  who  make  but  little  fight  for  life,  for 
only  a  few  minutes  did  they  struggle  in  the  icy  water, 
then  huddled  and  still,  with  boards  and  sacks  and  other 
extraneous  things,  the  tide  flooded  them  down  towari 
the  main  river. 

All  the  "upper"  Indians — those  living  close  about 
the  Agency — were  laughing,  though  their  laughing  was 
often  wan,  as  the  reports  came  to  us. 

"They  say  them  people  down  there  just  stand  on  the 
bank  with  long  poles  and  fish  in  the  drowned  sheep.  It's 
all  right  with  the  sheep  men.  They  don't  mind  how 
many  of  them  they  take  if  they'll  bring  back  the  pelts." 

Those  above  the  forks  on  the  main  river  did  not  of 
course  benefit  by  this  freak  of  prodigality  of  awak 
ening  spring. 

That  was  the  time — if  you  lived  here  you'd  remem 
ber  it  as  we  do — that  the  stage,  on  a  piece  of  river 
road,  was  overturned  by  the  rush  of  the  water.  The 
driver  saw  the  danger  coming  and  tried  to  get  up  into 
the  little  hills  above  the  road,  but  he  was  too  late.  His 
horses,  held  down  by  the  weight  of  the  wrecked  stage, 


142  Teepee  Neighbors 

were  drowned.  But  he,  upborne  by  some  shred  of 
grim  grit,  extricated  himself  from  ice  and  debris  and 
dragged  himself  somehow  to  the  shelter  of  the  shore. 
But  the  mail  sacks  went  down  with  the  rush  of  the 
water.  Then  the  ice  of  the  half-frozen  river  concealed 
them,  though  many  Indians  there  were  who  stood  on 
the  banks,  watching  the  flow  of  the  oily  water,  hoping 
for  a  glimpse  of  just  one  of  them.  You  see  immed 
iately  after  the  thing  happened  the  Post-office  Depart 
ment  offered  a  reward  of  five  dollars  for  each  sack  that 
should  be  recovered.  The  very  day  after  the  disaster, 
a  young  man  called  Charley  Good  Woman  found  one 
of  them,  half  buried  in  the  mud.  With  great  difficulty 
he  secured  it  and  bore  it  in  dubious  triumph  to  the 
local  post-office  where  he  was  immediately,  and  to  his 
own  bewilderment,  handed  his  five  dollars.  It  was  like 
finding  the  pot  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow. 

That  event  brought  one  man  at  least  out  of  every 
teepee  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  river,  to  sit  long 
hours  on  his  horse,  his  lariat,  its  noose  assuredly  free, 
grasped  in  a  ready  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  to  the  point  of 
hypnotism,  upon  the  sweep  of  the  current. 

Among  these  equestrian  statues,  half  clad,  cold, 
daring  not  quite  to  hope  and  yet  capable  of  suffering 
all  the  pangs  of  disappointment,  there  sat  one  oldish 
man  called  Howling  Wolf.  Of  all  of  that  lean  throng 
there  was  perhaps  none  as  poor  as  he.  Ah !  do  not  pity 


Teepee  Neighbors  143 

him.  His  condition  was  brought  about  mainly  through 
his  own  fault.  For  he  was  a  man  who  drank  some 
times,  feeling  as  he  did  within  his  old  body  a  craving, 
which  never,  in  all  the  days  covered  by  the  reach  of  his 
memory,  had  been  satisfied.  And  also  he  gambled. 
You  see  that  no  apology  can  be  offered  for  him.  No 
one  could  claim,  even  his  most  friendly  excusers,  that 
any  unsatisfied  longing  set  him  gambling.  In  fact  by 
every  canon  of  morality  his  action  must  be  condemn 
ed.  For  was  he  not  thereby  taking  food  from  the 
very  mouth  of  his  wife,  the  clothes  from  her  back?  Of 
children  they  had  mercifully  none.  Those  that  had 
been  born  to  them  had  died  little  and  long,  long  ago. 
Even  the  memory  of  them  had  become  confused,  had 
emerged  itself  into  a  sort  of  dull  ache,  which  in  turn 
mingled  itself  with  the  pangs  of  his  unsatisfied  body. 
Often  in  his  teepee  he  would  sit  on  the  ground-made 
bed,  smoking — tobacco,  when  he  had  it,  chopped  willow 
bark,  choking  and  bitter,  when  he  had  not  the  other — 
staring  at  the  hard-packed  dirt  of  the  floor,  at  the 
embers  of  the  fire;  going  over  eternally  the  past,  the 
days  of  youth,  of  austere  young  manhood,  the  courting 
days  when  down  in  the  bushes  by  the  river  he  had 
played  on  his  flute  to  her,  notes  liquid  and  alluring. . . 
At  this  point  he  would  lift  his  old  dreamy  eyes  to  his 
wife  who  sat,  fat  and  huddled,  on  her  side  of  the  tent, 
smoking  too  her  short  Indian  pipe,  staring  also  at  the 


144  Teepee  Neighbors 

hard-packed  floor.  And  during  the  long,  long  days 
he  would  think  of  the  vanished  game;  of  the  days  of 
achievement,  gone  also;  and  of  the  time  when  he  as 
well,  would  have  slipped  away,  when  to  the  hillside, 
amid  the  wailing  of  the  women  they  would  carry  his 
body — as  he  had  followed  many,  many  bodies, — wrap 
ped  in  new  quilts,  stark,  insensate  at  last.  He  would 
picture  them  lifting  him  from  the  old  farm  wagon — the 
borrowed  wagon — in  which  he  was  making  this  his  last 
trip,  and  laying  him  in  his  shallow  bed.  And  then  he 
knew  that  they  would  cover  him  up  tenderly  away  from 
the  sunlight  that  allured,  away  from  his  accustomed 
aching.  And  he  was  aware  that  thence- forth  his  wife 
would  be  homeless  and  poorer  than  ever,  living  out  her 
days  on  the  carelessly  given  charity  of  her  neighbors, 
trying  with  less  and  less  hope,  but  always  patiently,  to 
pay  the  bills  she  had  incurred  at  the  store,  even  the  bills 
for  the  new  quilts  in  which  she  had  swathed  him  for  his 
burial.  At  this  point  he  would  get  up  suddenly  and 
striding  out  of  his  tent  would  go  to  where  his  last  pony 
was  picking  about  amongst  the  brush,  and  he  would 
mount  it  bareback  as  it  was  and  with  an  end  of  his 
lariat  about  its  neck  for  a  bridle  he  would  lope  steadily 
across  the  snow,  across  the  ice  of  the  river  to  that  little 
town  where  distraction  and  temporary  oblivion  might 
be  obtained. 

At  last  of  course  he  would  be  forced  to  come  back ; 


Teepee  Neighbors  145 

at  night,  probably;  his  lariat  gone  perhaps,  or  his 
blanket,  or  the  handkerchief  from  about  his  neck,  or 
even  his  hat.  For  luck  seemed  never  to  come  his  way, 
though  his  little  bag  of  "medicine,"  suspended  by  its 
dirty  twisted  string  he  always  kept  hidden  securely 
away  inside  his  shirt.  But  the  "medicine"  was  old,  and 
the  white  men  of  the  little  town — those  of  them  who 
would  play  with  him — knew  a  trick  or  two  of  twice  its 
worth.  The  younger  men  of  the  tribe  had  indeed 
learned  from  the  whites  defensive  cheating  at  cards, 
but  not  so  he ;  he  was  too  unp regressive,  too  "Indian." 

Thus  just  before  the  thaw  he  had  come  back  to  the 
old  teepee  and  the  old  wife,  utterly  depleted.  Then 
unexpectedly  hope,  that  will-o'-the-wisp,  had  lit  for 
him  in  his  blindness  a  little  trembling,  enticing  flame; 
and  so  he  too  sat  motionless  by  the  river,  watching  for 
the  water  to  give  up  a  lost  mail  sack,  in  his  hands  a 
borrowed  lariat. 

And  as  he  sat — it  was  the  fourth  day  now,  yet  only 
the  one  sack  had  been  found — he  saw  a  man  on  the 
other  shore,  a  white  man  mounted  on  a  solid  cow  pony, 
come  slipping  and  sliding  down  the  opposite  bank,  and 
gingerly  make  his  way  out  upon  the  rotten  ice.  But 
after  a  moment  his  eyes  old  and  smoke-dimmed  grew 
tired  facing  the  ice-glare  and  he  dropped  them  to  the 
open  water  close  at  his  feet.  He  gasped, — his  old 
heart  swelled  big  within  him.  For  there  almost  within 


146  Teepee  Neighbors 

reach  of  his  hand  he  saw  at  last  the  object  of  his  long 
vigil.  One  corner  of  it  projected  above  the  tide.  He 
lifted  his  heels  to  force  his  horse  down  into  the  flood — 
then  suddenly  his  ears  were  assailed  by  a  great  sound. 
There  came  to  him  the  crash  of  an  explosion,  and 
mingled  with  it  a  terrible  wild  cry.  Staring  out  across 
the  river  he  saw  black  water  yawning  where  had  been 
the  ice.  Cowboy  and  horse  had  disappeared.  But  even 
as  he  looked  the  man  came  to  the  surface.  He  floun 
dered,  groped,  caught  precariously  a  side  of  jagged  ice. 
The  mail  sack,  ever  at  his  side,  sailed  slowly  by,  the  ice 
crust  below  waiting  to  secrete  it  again. 

With  the  swiftness  of  Nature  herself  Howling  Wolf 
had  his  lariat  uncoiled  and  like  a  meteor  flash  sent  its 
sinuous  length  out  over  the  oily  water.  It  caught  the 
half -sub  merged  man  fairly  about  the  shoulders. 

Fortunately  the  teepee  was  near.  His  thin  old  arm 
supported  and  guided  the  staggering  man.  Arrived 
there  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  and  his 
wife  got  off  the  man's  already  freezing  clothes.  They 
put  him  in  their  bed,  for  they  had  no  change  of  raiment 
to  offer  him  while  his  own  things  thawed  and  dried. 
They  covered  him  with  all  they  had.  They  wiped  his 
streaming  face  and  hair.  Then  they  boiled  coffee  and 
brought  him  some  of  it  in  a  bowl.  The  smell  of  the 
sage  brush  fire,  of  the  coffee,  and  the  steam  from  the 
drying  clothes,  filled  the  tent.  The  white  man,  sick  and 


Teepee  Neighbors  147 

faint,  lay  chattering  between  the  quilts.  Dinner  time 
came  but  brought  with  it  no  dinner;  it  went  as  it  had 
come.  A  little  later  they  all  partook  of  coffee.  With 
signs  the  old  man  made  his  apology,  his  face  twisted 
with  distress  for  his  inhospitality. 

"There's  only  this,"  he  seemed  to  say.  "We  have  no 
food." 

He  had  gone  twice  to  the  river  to  look  for  signs  of 
the  stranger's  horse  only  to  return  and  report  that  there 
were  none. 

At  last  the  white  man,  restored,  dressed  himself 
again  and  got  up  to  take  his  leave.  He  spoke  to  the  old 
couple  in  English,  which  neither  could  understand, 
making  what  awkward  explanatory  signs  he  could  re 
collect. 

"I  remember  you,  all  right.  You're  the  old  feller  we 
cleaned  out  the  other  day  over  at  Slim's  place.  Gee! 
They've  cleaned  me  out  since.  I  haven't  got  enough  in 
my  pockets  to  jingle  and  now  my  horse  and  saddle  are 
gone.  I'm  afoot,  I  am,  walkin'  for  my  livin',  these 
days!  Say,  bad  luck's  a  rotten  thing,  ain't  it?  Well, 
here's  four  bits,  every  cent  I  got  on  the  earth.  I  want 
your  wife  to  take  it.  It'll  buy  you  a  little  grub  anyhow. 
I'll  walk  over  to  the  store  at  the  Forks,  I  know  the 
feller  that  runs  it.  I  guess  he'll  give  me  a  hand-out 
to  eat  and  maybe  a  job — "  Then  each  in  turn  he  shook 
solemnly  by  the  hand.  "I'm  right  grateful  to  you  for 


148  Teepee  Neighbors 

what  you  done  for  me.  I'm  expecting  to  go  out  of  this 
country,  but  if  I  should  ever  come  back — well,  anyhow, 
so  long." 

Standing  outside  the  door  of  the  teepee,  the  fifty 
cent  piece  tied  for  safe  keeping  in  a  fold  of  the  wife's 
sleeve,  the  old  couple  stood,  shading  their  eyes,  watch 
ing  the  man  trudge  cheerfully  across  the  snowy  waste. 

From  inside  the  tent  came  the  smell  of  boiling  coffee. 


LAZARUS 

THEY  STOPPED  their  wagon  at  our  hitching  post,  tying 
their  narrow-built,  bare-footed  ponies  to  the  rack. 
Their  skeleton  dogs,  curling  themselves  up  into  furry 
cocoons,  crouched  down  upon  the  frozen  gravel  away 
from  the  wind.  Then  they  came  in,  the  young  man 
trailing  in  the  wake  of  his  father.  It  was  one  of  those 
bitter  cold  days  that  so  often  visit  us  in  Wyoming,  but 
cold  days  that  do  not  look  cold;  like  smiles  disguising 
bitter  words;  like  Death  itself,  visibly  serene,  yet  the 
very  state  of  dissolution.  The  whole  world,  or  at  least 
the  wide  stretch  of  it  to  be  seen  from  our  ranch  win 
dows,  was  gala  with  sunlight ;  yet  under  cover  of  that 
sunlight,  intangible,  the  teeth  of  the  cold,  like  manacles, 
bit  into  the  flesh  of  the  unwary. 

In  Wyoming  when  we  enter  house  or  tent  in  winter 
we  go  straight  to  the  stove.  So  deep-rooted  is  this 
habit  that  to  do  so  has  become  almost  a  matter  of 
etiquette.  Even  in  summer  we  congregate  about  our 
empty  stoves,  smiling  and  talking  to  each  other  across 
their  idle  blackness. 

I  drew  up  chairs  for  my  guests.  It  was  morning. 
There  was  house-work  still  pending,  so  I  moved  about 
near  them,  busying  myself  as  I  might,  not  wishing  to 
seem  inattentive.  They  pulled  their  chairs  close  to  the 
stove.  Stooping,  the  young  man  opened  the  drafts. 

149 


150  Teepee  Neighbors 

They  drew  off  their  gloves  and  held  toward  the  fire 
their  hands,  cramped  with  the  cold — old  gnarled  hands 
and  young  thin  ones.  Removing  their  hats  they  laid 
them  down  upon  the  floor  beside  them.  Their  heads 
were  tied  up,  hood-fashion,  in  faded  bandannas.  They 
were  dressed  in  the  heterogeneous  vestments  of  border 
civilization.  A  single  pair  of  overalls  formed  the  lower 
garment  of  the  son.  A  knitted  muffler  enveloped  the 
father's  neck.  Flimsy  canvas  moccasins  shod  them. 
They  wore  no  overcoats. 

For  our  Indian  guests  we  always  kept  on  hand  a 
sack  of  tobacco.  This  with  the  book  of  papers  I  now 
passed  to  them.  They  gave  me  smiles  of  acknow 
ledgement.  Then  with  hands  still  awkward  from  the 
cold,  they  helped  themselves  sparingly,  rolling  their 
economical  cigarettes. 

The  young  man,  his  shoulders  bent  heavily,  his  claw- 
like  hands  extended,  hollow  of  chest,  spoke  in  a  husky 
voice. 

"My  Father  he  come  here  ask  you  find  him  a  story 
in  the  Bible." 

"A  story  in  the  Bible?" 

"Yes." 

And  watching  us,  in  his  native  tongue  the  old  man 
spoke  suddenly.  His  words  sounded  emphatically. 
With  his  hands,  one  of  which  held  the  cigarette,  he 
enforced  their  meaning  by  accompanying  them  with 


Teepee  Neighbors  151 

the  conventional  gestures  of  the  Indian  language  of 
signs.  His  deep  eyes  were  upon  his  son. 

The  soft  odor  of  tobacco  filled  the  room.  The  heat 
from  the  open  stove  made  the  air  heavy.  The  young 
man,  bending  forward,  his  eyes  upon  the  floor,  slowly 
inhaling  and  exhaling  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette,  lis 
tened  attentively.  He  coughed. 

"My  Father  he  say  one  time  he  go  to  the  Indian 
church  and  the  minister  he  tell  that  story.  Since  then 
he  always  thinkin'  'bout  it.  He  want  to  hear  that  story 
'gain.  It's  in  the  Bible,  he  says.  You  got  lots  o'  books, 
he  guess  you  know  it." 

"Can  he  tell  me  what  it  was  about?" 

The  young  man  coughed  again.  He  threw  the 
stump  of  his  cigarette  into  the  stove. 

"It  'bout  a  man,  a  white  man,  a  chief,  a  king,  I  guess 
you  call  him.  This  man  big  man ;  he  have  lots  to  eat, 
lots  o'  good  clothes,  plenty  money.  All  time  he  just 
sit  in  his  house  and  everybody  workin'  for  him.  He 
smoke,  he  have  good  time." 

From  this  beginning  I  felt  dubious  about  eventually 
recognizing  the  story. 

"But  one  day  a  man  come,  sit  down  on  the  ground 
by  his  door.  He  stay  there  all  the  time.  This  man  he 
awful  poor.  He  just  got  rags  on  him  for  clothes;  he 
don't  comb  his  hair  and  it  hang  down  all  wild ;  he  got 
sores  on  his  legs,  on  his  body.  The  dogs  they  come 


152  Teepee  Neighbors 

close  to  him,  they  bother  him  good  deal.  He  awful 
hungry."  He  lifted  his  face  to  me.  With  one  thin 
yellow  hand  he  formed  the  expressive  sign  which, 
turned  against  the  breast  of  the  maker,  says :  Hunger 
is  killing  me,  Hunger  has  conquered  me. 

"I  understand,"  I  said. 

The  young  man  coughed,  smiled  apologetically. 

"My  Father,  he  say  that  sick  man  so  hungry  he  for 
get  that  chief  got  hard  heart,  one  day  he  call  out  and 
beg  him  for  some  scraps  of  food.  But  that  big  man 
always  laughin',  talking  havin*  good  time.  He  don't 
hear  him.  He  always  lookin'  the  other  way.  That 
man  wait  long  time  but  nobody  give  him  nothin*.  Then 
that  poor  man  he  try  steal  the  bones  away  from  the 
dogs.  But  he  too  weak.  Them  dogs  they  all  time  fight 
him  off.  Then  he  sit  down  by  the  door  again,  and 
he  feel  bad  in  his  heart  and  his  sores  hurt  him  and  he 
awful  hungry.  At  last  by  the  door  he  see  a  swill  bucket 
and  he  reach  out  his  hand  and  he  pull  things  out  of  it 
and  he  eat  them;  peelings,  anything."  He  stopped, 
coughing. 

I  got  up  suddenly  and  went  over  to  the  book  shelves. 

The  old  man  straightened  himself  up.  He  looked 
at  his  boy,  he  looked  at  me;  he  spoke  vehemently. 
Then  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  The  son  lifted  his 
haggard  face,  his  eyes  glowed  above  hollow  cheeks. 

"My  Father,  he  say,  long  ago  when  he  young  man, 


Teepee  Neighbors  153 

it's  different,  but  today  the  Indians  been  like  that  sick 
man,  they  so  hungry  all  time  they  learn  now  to  be  glad 
when  white  people  let  them  eat  just  them  thrown- 
away  things." 

And,  hollow  of  chest,  he  too  sank  back  in  his  seat. 


AT  THE  END  OF  HIS  ROPE 

IT  is  not  often  that  a  man  has  to  undergo  two  identical 
and  very  hard  experiences.  Such  however,  was  the 
fate  of  Jerome  Rising  Elk.  It  seemed  almost  incredible 
that  twice  the  same  bitter  thing  should  happen  to  him. 
But  let  me  tell  you  this  story.  Soon  after  he  left  school, 
as  quite  a  young  man  he  had  married,  in  the  Indian 
way,  and  he  had  set  up  house  keeping  for  himself  and 
his  bride  in  a  little  white  tent  pitched  close  to  her 
father's  home.  In  time  there  had  come  a  baby,  and 
at  its  coming  she  had  left  him. 

Who  shall  conceive  the  horror  of  her  last  day?  The 
young  moaning  mother  lying  on  the  floor  amongst  dingy 
quilts,  the  gloom  of  the  teepee,  the  helpless  sympathe 
tic,  women- faces  about  her,  the  old  weeping  grand 
mother,  her  mother,  a  baby  at  her  breast,  her  own  last 
anguish  fresh  in  her  mind:  the  flies,  the  heat,  the 
sneaking  dogs,  the  day-long  agony;  and  then  the 
spent  flesh  breaking  at  last,  the  thread  of  life  snapping, 
even  as  the  infant's  cry  proclaimed  the  birth. 

The  girl's  mother  had  taken  the  child.  For  a  few 
months  she  nursed  it  with  her  own;  then — for  who 
shall  starve  one's  own  for  the  sake  of  an  outsider? — 
then  its  wailing  cry  had  ceased  and  they  had  laid  its 
little  lean  body  in  a  grave  hollowed  out  of  the  dry  earth 
near  its  mother's. 

154 


Teepee  Neighbors  155 

Jerome  and  his  wife  did  not  live  at  our  end  of  the 
reservation.  I  scarcely  knew  either  of  them  by  sight, 
but  their  story,  the  sad  story  of  the  manner  of  her 
death,  was  told  everywhere  about  the  camps;  the 
women  listened,  wonderingly,  holding  close  their  own, 
thinking  in  their  hearts:  "If  it  had  been  I!" 

Two  or  three  years  passed.  Like  a  homeless  bird 
the  young  man,  a  boy  of  some  education  for  a  reserva 
tion  Indian,  drifted  from  camp  to  camp,  made  long 
journeys  and  visits  to  neighboring  tribes,  in  Oklahoma, 
in  the  Dakotas.  He  had  no  one  to  do  for  him,  to  care 
for  his  clothes,  bead  his  moccasins.  At  her  death  all 
her  possessions  and  most  of  bis  had  gone  in  the  Indian 
way  to  her  people.  He  lodged  where  he  might,  stretch 
ed  his  welcome,  the  wide  Indian  welcome,  to  the 
breaking  point,  flitted  from  home  to  home.  At  last, 
as  was  inevitable,  he  married  again. 

The  second  wife  was  a  girl  from  our  school.  I  knew 
her  well.  A  lovely  girl  she  was,  a  slender,  strong, 
lightfooted  thing;  eyes  clear  and  starry.  To  see  her 
walk  you  were  reminded  of  the  figure  in  the  Old 
Testament  "Light  of  foot  as  a  wild  roe." 

Her  name  was  Ada.  They  came  down  to  our  little 
church  to  be  married.  I  remember  the  day,  my  kitchen 
apron  on,  my  sleeves  rolled  up,  right  from  my  washing, 
I  ran  over  to  the  church  to  make  the  necessary  second 


156  Teepee  Neighbors 

witness.  Jerome  was  neatly  dressed  in  store-bought 
clothes  and  boots,  a  bright  handkerchief  tied  cow-boy- 
wise  about  his  neck.  She  stood  by  him  in  her  trim 
"squaw  dress."  Its  graceful  lines,  as  those  of  the 
shawl  drooping  from  her  shoulders,  gave  a  lovely 
almost  classic  look  to  her  figure.  Her  pretty  head  was 
bowed  humbly.  Frankly  and  without  hesitation  togeth 
er  they  went  through  the  binding  service.  Of  all  their 
friends  and  relatives  only  her  father  had  come  with 
them.  He  and  I  were  their  witnesses.  I  wrote  my 
name,  he  made  his  "thumb  mark"  on  their  certificate. 
Then  I  hurried  back  to  my  washing. 

It  was  next  winter  or  early  spring  that  we  sat  one 
night  in  the  living  room  of  our  ranch  house,  my  hus 
band  and  I,  on  either  side  of  the  lamp,  reading.  Sud 
denly  I  heard  a  faint  rattling  noise  as  of  a  wagon 
driven  fast  down  the  frozen  road,  distant  from  our 
house  nearly  half  a  mile.  Very  distinctly  there  reached 
us  also  another  sound.  The  book  dropped  from  my 
fingers  and  I  was  on  my  feet  in  an  instant. 

'That's  crying,"  I  said.  "Somebody's  dead.  They're 
wailing.  Maybe  it's  May — or  Lottie's  little  boy." 

I  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it  on  the  frosty  night. 
The  unseen  wagon  was  clattering  on  down  the  road. 
Several  voices  were  crying,  women's  voices,  raising 
their  weird  despairing  lament  into  the  night.  Then  a 
man's  voice  joined  the  strange  chorus.  We  stood 


Teepee  Neighbors  157 

i    '1 

together  listening  to  that  sound,  which,  though  •  *  o>;  i  a 
hundred  times,  can  never  lose  its  power  to  sha*eV  to 
pierce.  t'f 

"Poor  Indians !  Poor  people !  Death  everywhere — 
suffering  without  help  and  always  death — I  suppose 
we'll  hear  tomorrow  who  it  is."  ies* 

We  heard.  Soon  after  breakfast  some  one  came 
riding  fast  toward  the  house  from  the  lower  gate. 
When  I  hear  anyone  approaching  at  that  rate  of  speed, 
I  have  no  need  to  look  out  of  the  window  to  know  who 
it  is.  There's  a  blind  boy  who  always  rides  like  that. 
Seth,  they  call  him  in  English.  But  his  Indian  name 
is  at  once  tragic  and  poetic:  "He-sits-in-the-night." 
The  sand  flew  from  beneath  his  little  buck-skin's  scam 
pering  feet.  He  stopped  near  the  house  door.  I  went 
out.  At  the  sound  of  the  door  he  called  to  me. 

"Where's  that  ole'  hitchin'  post?" 

I  laughed  as  I  put  a  hand  on  the  buck-skin's  bridle 
to  lead  him  to  it. 

"Come  on  in,"  I  said.  He  got  down  lightly  and 
followed  the  sound  of  my  steps  into  the  house. 

"It's  cold." 

I  pushed  a  chair  for  him  close  to  the  stove.  "There," 
I  said.  "Sit  down  and  tell  me  all  the  news." 

The  boy,  welcome  everywhere  for  his  kindly  nature 
and  witty  mind,  his  helpfulness,  his  pluck,  acted  as  a 


158  Teepee  Neighbors 

*sr 
-or;  "'''walking  newspaper  for  the  tribe.     From  Seth 

you  ^  ^re  always  sure  of  getting  the  last  bit  of  gossip. 

"La.  j  night  we  hear  bad  news,"  he  began. 

''"'Who  died?"  I  asked.  "I  heard  them  driving  by 
here  and  crying.  I  hope  it  wasn't  May." 

"\VV  '  he  said.  "It's  Jerome's  wife.  She  die  down 
below  at  tfie  Forks  of  the  river.  That's  her  mother 
and  father  you  hear  cryin'.  They  was  campin'  at  the 
school  and  my  father  he  go  up  to  tell  them  'bout  it. 
They  drive  way  down  to  the  Forks  in  the  dark  last 
night." 

"Oh!  Seth—"  I  cried.  "Not  Ada!"  Pretty  light- 
footed  Ada  with  her  starry  sweet  eyes. 

"She  borned  a  baby,"  explained  Sits-in-the-night. 
"A  girl,  I  think.  It  didn't  die." 

So  it  was  all  to  begin  over  again ;  the  miserable  busi 
ness  of  trying  to  raise  in  the  camps  a  motherless  baby. 
I  had  seen  it  attempted  so  many  times,  almost  always 
to  end  in  failure. 

"Who'll  take  the  baby?" 

"I  never  hear ;  I  guess  the  mother." 

Poor  Ada.  Poor  pretty  young  wife !  Poor  mother 
less,  hungry  little  child! 

It  was  almost  summer  time  when  I  heard  of  the 
baby  again;  they  lived  so  far  from  us,  forty  or  fifty 
miles,  and  quite  off  in  a  direction  by  itself.  Mollie,  one 
of  Ada's  school  mates,  told  me  about  it. 


Teepee  Neighbors  159 

"No,  it  ain't  doin'  well  at  all.  They  say  it  just  cries 
and  cries.  You  know  the  grandmother,  she  don't  want 
to  do  nothin'  but  play  cards.  She  leaves  it  all  alone  in 
her  teepee  and  she  goes  off  gamblin'.  The  women 
they  hears  it  cryin'  when  they  passes  her  tent.  Ada 
used  to  be  just  crazy  'bout  babies.  My!  I  guess  she'd 
feel  bad  if  she  knew  how  her  little  baby  cries." 

"Oh!  Mollie!"  I  said,  "OhlMollie!"  The  thought 
of  that  miserable  little  one  haunted  me  for  days. 

The  end  of  the  story  came  before  long.  Heaven 
knows  the  facts  were  bald  and  bitter  enough. 

It  seems  that  in  the  end  the  young  father  had  not 
been  able  to  endure  longer  the  child's  neglect.  If  you 
with  your  superior  white  man's  way  of  settling  every 
one's  difficulties  for  him  out  of  hand,  think  he  should 
have  interfered  sooner  you  probably  do  not  know  that 
with  the  Indians  the  child  belongs  exclusively  to  the 
mother  and  her  people,  the  father,  indeed,  having  no 
voice  in  its  disposition.  It  was  only  because  Jerome 
was  an  old  school  boy,  versed  a  little  in  the  white 
man's  ways,  that  he  undertook  at  all  to  manage  the 
affairs  of  his  motherless  little  one.  In  doing  so  he  had 
to  face  public  opinion  and  the  opposition  of  both  his 
relatives  and  those  of  his  wife.  But  at  last  he  took 
it  away  from  the  card-playing  old  grandmother;  went 
to  her  tent  and  got  it  bodily,  its  rags,  its  bottle,  a  can  or 
two  of  condensed  milk.  Horseback  as  he  was  he 


160  Teepee  Neighbors 

carried  it  down  the  valley  a  number  of  miles  to  the 
cabin  of  a  friend  of  his,  Lee  Hunting  Wolf,  an  old 
school  boy  like  himself. 

Lee  and  his  wife  made  their  guests  welcome  to  the 
little  they  possessed.  The  Indian  way  is  always  open- 
handed  even  to  impoverishment.  The  woman  took 
the  baby  in  hand,  washed  a  bit  cleaner  the  murky,  en 
crusted  bottle,  changed  its  clothes,  warmed  the  little 
feet.  For  a  while  it  was  quiet,  drowsy  after  the  long 
unwonted  ride.  Then  it  began  to  fret,  to  wail ;  its  cry 
ing  became  incessant.  From  the  can  the  woman  put 
milk  into  the  bottle,  added  water,  a  little  sugar,  warmed 
it,  tried  to  make  the  child  take  hold  of  it,  suck — but 
in  vain.  It  wailed  and  cried  ceaselessly,  distressingly. 
From  a  spoon  they  endeavored  to  feed  it  their  weak 
sweetened  coffee,  then  even  some  of  the  soup  in  which 
the  meat  of  their  supper  had  been  boiled.  Its  distress 
only  increased.  Bed  time  came  and  still  it  fretted,  twist 
ing  its  body,  its  arms  writhing,  its  legs  drawn  up.  The 
woman  as  she  lay  in  bed  held  it  on  her  arm,  changing 
it  about  from  one  side  to  the  other.  Not  one  of  them 
was  able  to  sleep. 

At  last  her  husband  got  up  and  taking  a  quilt  with 
him  went  outside  and  lay  down  on  the  ground  under 
the  wagon,  seeking  a  little  rest.  The  woman  continued 
to  hush  the  baby,  patting  it,  talking  patiently  to  it. 
Its  father,  in  the  other  bunk,  lay  rigid,  motionless, 


Teepee  Neighbors  161 

covered  even  to  the  head  with  his  striped  blanket;  a 
long,  sinister,  despairing  form.  He  made  even  no  sign 
of  being  aware  of  his  little  one's  distress. 

The  long  night  wore  on.  At  last  the  early  dawn 
of  midsummer  began  to  show  faintly  in  the  night  sky, 
over  the  distorted  shapes  of  the  Bad  Lands  to  the  east, 
amongst  the  stars.  The  light  wind  of  the  morning 
sprang  up.  Outside  the  house  meadow-larks  sang 
loudly  their  sweet  insistent  tune.  The  baby  had  at 
last  fallen  into  an  exhausted  doze.  The  woman  slipped 
it  cautiously  from  her  arm,  and  getting  up  from  the 
bed  stepped  noiselessly  out  of  the  door  into  the  sweet 
morning  sunlight.  The  man  in  the  other  bed  still  slept, 
apparently.  The  woman  went  to  the  wagon  and,  stoop 
ing  down,  woke  her  husband.  Heavily  and  stupidly 
after  the  weary  night,  they  set  about  their  morning 
tasks.  He  gathered  together  his  little  band  of  horses, 
and  mounting  bare-back  on  one,  drove  them  before 
him,  down  to  the  stream  half  a  mile  or  more  away. 
The  woman  gathered  chips  of  wood  and  made  a  fire  in 
the  old  cook-stove  that  stood  on  the  ground,  just  out 
side  her  door.  She  brought  meat  from  the  house  and 
set  it  on  in  a  black  kettle  to  boil.  She  put  coffee,  sugar 
and  water  into  an  old  smoky  coffee  pot  and  placed  that 
over  another  hole.  Then  she  sat  down  on  the  ground 
by  the  stove  and  began  mixing  a  kind  of  dough,  shaping 
it  with  her  hands,  rounding  it  on  a  plate,  slashing  it  in 


162  Teepee  Neighbors 

the  centre  four  times  with  a  knife,  that  it  might  fry, 
doughnut-wise.  While  she  worked  the  man  in  the 
house  came  to  the  door  and  shut  it.  She  heard  the 
key  turn  in  the  lock.  If  this  seemed  strange  to  her,  she 
in  her  stupid,  sleepy  condition,  scarcely  gave  it  a 
thought. 

The  house  was  built  on  high,  dry  ground,  well  back 
from  the  river  where  the  pest  of  mosquitoes  made  sum 
mer  camping  almost  unendurable.  Unconsciously,  she 
kept  looking  down  the  trail  for  the  return  of  her  hus 
band.  She  felt  shaken  by  the  night.  Her  own  last 
baby  had  died  two  years  ago,  or  it  would  be  that  long 
come  Sun  Dance  time,  and  the  feeling  of  this  little 
ailing  creature  on  her  arm  had  moved  her  pitifully.  A 
band  of  loose  horses,  mares  with  their  foals,  fed  near 
the  house,  switching  savagely  with  their  tails  at  the 
encroaching  flies.  The  little  colts  scampered  about, 
whinnying  shrilly.  She  wondered  in  her  tired,  hurt 
mind  at  the  ways  of  God.  Here  were  babies  at  their 
mothers'  sides,  fat  with  their  mothers'  milk,  while  that 
human  baby  was  deprived  so  utterly.  Dexterously  she 
she  turned  the  cake  of  fried-bread  in  the  boiling  grease. 
Through  the  shimmering  heat  waves  about  the  stove, 
she  saw  her  husband  riding  up  the  trail,  the  coiled  end 
of  the  lariat  which  served  him  for  a  bridle,  in  his  hand. 
The  other  horses  trotted  ahead  of  him.  The  animals 
were  switching  their  tails,  her  husband  slashing  about 


Teepee  Neighbors  163 

his  head  and  hands  with  a  willow  branch.  He  slipped 
off  his  horse  near  to  her,  throwing  the  coiled  end  of 
the  lariat  on  the  ground. 

"Wheel"  he  cried.  "Mosquitoes!"  He  still  beat 
about  with  his  branch.  The  sides  of  the  horses  were 
black  with  the  little  pests,  dancing  in  clouds  in  the  sun 
light  above  and  around  them.  The  woman  smiled. 

"The  food's  nearly  ready,"  she  said. 

Then  suddenly  was  shattered  the  peace  of  the  morn 
ing.  A  horrible  sound  of  sinister  import  burst  upon 
their  ears,  the  thunder  of  a  gun  fired  at  close  range. . . . 
The  report  could  have  come  from  nowhere  but  within 
the  house.  The  woman  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant. 
They  both  ran  to  the  door. 

The  woman  seized  the  knob,  rattled  it  ineffectually, 
beat  upon  the  boards  with  her  bare  hands;  the  man 
thrust  at  it  with  his  shoulder.  It  failed  to  yield.  The 
woman  rushed  around  to  the  one  window,  but  the  man 
inside  had  screened  it  with  its  calico  curtain.  Lee  ran 
for  the  axe,  returned  with  it,  in  a  couple  of  blows  had 
the  door  off  its  hinges,  prone.  After  all  the  woman 
cowered  back  to  let  her  husband  pass  first  into  that 
place  of  fear.  She  followed  him  however  by  a  step  or 
two.  Simultaneously  they  beheld  Jerome  Rising  Elk. 
He  had  got  himself  so  propped  in  a  corner  that  the  shot 
that  had  killed  him  had  left  him  sitting  upright  as  in 
life.  His  hair  was  braided  carefully,  his  face  and  head 


164  Teepee  Neighbors 

anointed  with  the  red  "medicine"  paint ;  he  was  dress 
ed  in  his  best,  dressed  indeed  by  his  own  hand  for  his 
burial.  His  striped  blanket  was  wrapped  around  him, 
drawn  close  about  his  shoulders;  his  hand  that  had 
fired  the  shot  was  beneath  its  folds  so  that  the  bodily 
destruction  was  not  visible.  Only  at  his  feet,  as  he 
sat,  was  a  dreadful  thing, — a  red,  red  pool  on  the  mud 
of  the  floor,  a  pool  that  spread  insidiously  even  as  they 
looked. 

The  man  ran  forward  and  pulled  the  blanket  off  one 
shoulder  but  with  a  cry  and  eyes  that  in  horror  sought 
those  of  his  wife,  he  replaced  it  hastily.  With  the  dis 
arranging  of  his  wrappings  the  man's  limp  hand,  some 
how  entangled  in  the  lock  of  the  six-shooter,  slipped 
from  his  knee  and  fell  toward  the  floor,  dragged  down 
by  its  horrid  burden.  Above,  the  half-opened  eyes,  the 
mysterious  painted  face,  showed  no  change. 

On  the  other  bed,  the  nipple  of  the  bottle  still  in  her 
little  mouth,  the  baby  lay  sleeping. 


THE  LOVE  WOMAN 

THEY  CAME  to  me  tentatively,  their  shawls  wrapped 
about  their  calico-clad  forms.  At  my  bidding  they 
sat  by  the  stove,  thrusting  out  their  muddy  moccasins 
to  the  heat.  They  talked  a  little,  but  shyly,  their  eyes 
searching  me.  Assuredly  there  was  something  they 
strove  to  say.  I  bided  my  time  knowing  that  in  all 
probability  they  would  get  it  out  at  last.  They  turned 
their  rugged  faces  toward  me,  their  eyes  keen,  though 
always  slightly  veiled. 

One  of  them  spoke  softly.  "Pauline,  she  goin'  to 
born  a  baby  pretty  soon." 

"I  know." 

"Did  you  hear  that?" 

"Oh  yes !" 

"Her  mother  talk  a  lot  about  that  baby.  They  don't 
want  it." 

"I  suppose  not,  poor  little  soul !" 

I  looked  around  the  room  which,  as  it  sometimes 
seemed  to  me,  ached  with  its  emptiness,  the  empty  cor 
ner,  the  empty  pillow,  the  drawer  full  of  empty  little 
clothes,  and  my  hands  in  my  lap,  emptiest  of  all. 

"She  can't  be  much  more  than  sixteen." 

"She  is  sixteen." 

"And  of  course  he  can't  marry  her  because  he  has  a 
wife  already." 

165 


166  Teepee  Neighbors 

"The  old  folks  always  say  when  they  was  young, 
girls  didn't  have  babies  that  way." 

"So  I've  heard." 

"Her  mother  talks  awful  bad  to  her  about  this  one." 

"It's  too  late  now  to  talk." 

"Yes,  pretty  soon  she'll  born  it." 

I  sighed. 

"Her  mother  she  think  may  be  they  give  it  away.  , . 
She  wonderin'  if  perhaps  you'll  take  it." 

"I !" 

"There's  no  one  else,"  they  faltered. 

I  stared  and  stared  at  nothing,  my  empty  hands  lying 
in  my  lap.  "Does  Pauline  want  me  to?" 

"She  say  so." 

"Ah !  But  when  it's  once  born  she'll  feel  differently." 

The  girls  looked  pensively  at  the  fire. 

I  got  up  suddenly  and  walked  across  the  empty 
room Then  I  came  back. 

"When  you  see  them,  Pauline  or  her  mother,  tell 
them— I'll  take  it.  I'm  willing.  If  they  don't  want  to 
keep  it,  why  shouldn't  I  ?  I've  got  clothes  for  it,— I've 
got  everything.  Will  it  be  soon?" 

"Maybe  next  month." 

"Oh!"  There  would  be  an  infinity  of  weary  days 
stretching  between  this  one  and  "next  month." 

We  sat  in  silence  listening,  I  suppose,  each  to  the 
beating  of  her  own  heart. 


Teepee  Neighbors  167 

They  got  up  at  length.  "Well,  I  guess  we  go."  And 
shuffling  and  rustling  faintly  they  crossed  the  room 
and  slipped  out,  a  little  side- ways,  through  the  half- 
opened  door. 

It  was  a  couple  of  weeks  after  this  that  looking  one 
day  out  of  the  window  over  the  valley,  I  saw  some  one 
crossing  our  fields.  It  was  an  Indian  woman,  and  she 
was  alone.  This  latter  fact  was  so  unusual  that  it  in 
vested  her  at  once  with  a  touch  of  mystery;  in  some 
way  set  her  apart.  She  sped  over  the  little  bridge,  pass 
ed  the  hitching  rack,  stepped  delicately  upon  the 
gravel  surrounding  the  house.  She  walked  rapidly 
and  in  her  stride  there  was  something  eager,  even  res 
olute.  As  she  advanced  her  garments  fluttered  about 
her,  the  fringes  of  her  shawl,  her  ribbon-trimmed 
skirts,  her  wide,  beaded  leggins.  Her  blanket  was 
drawn  up  over  her  head. 

Then  came  the  sound  of  fingers,  fluttering  also 
against  my  door. 

"Come  in,"  I  called  out. 

She  entered,  bending  a  trifle  forward.  With  a  back- 
reaching  hand  she  closed  the  door,  her  eyes  searching 
the  room.  Then  she  slipped  her  blanket  down  from 
off  her  head.  Her  sleek,  very  black  hair,  was  brushed 
to  glossiness,  beads  encircled  her  neck.  Her  dress  was 
new  and  bright  in  color,  ribbons  and  a  small  bag  of 
Indian  scent  were  pinned  on  her  breast.  Her  snug- 


i68  Teepee  Neighbors 

fitting  moccasins  were  daintily  beaded.  Her  cheeks 
and  the  parting  of  her  hair  showed  the  faint  tinting 
of  paint.  It  was  Pauline.  There  was  a  child-like  qual 
ity  about  her,  almost  elfin.  She  was  short,  reaching 
I  should  say  barely  to  the  shoulder  of  the  gaunt  women 
of  her  tribe.  In  her  smile,  a  little  set  in  her  soft,  parted 
lips,  in  her  small  piquant  face  and  most  of  all  in  her 
darting  swift  glances,  there  was  something  that  recalled 
the  Japanese. 

Holding  her  shawl  carefully  about  her,  she  dropped 
into  a  chair,  laughing  a  little.  One  slim  hand  she  drew 
quickly  from  its  hiding  place  beneath  her  shawl's  folds. 
Its  delicate  fingers,  their  nails  a  trifle  long,  were  clasped 
about  a  tiny  btmch  of  violets.  Then,  her  head  cocked 
a  little  to  one  side,  she  held  them  up  to  me. 

"See,  I  find  these.    They're  the  very  first  ones." 

Perforce  I  came  near  to  admire  them,  but  instead, 
I  looked  at  her.  She  suggested  dimly  a  kitten,  eyeing 
a  darting  butterfly,  I  thought. 

Perhaps  because  she  was  of  a  nature  more  direct 
than  that  of  most  of  the  women,  or  because  discretion 
no  longer  tramelled  her,  or  because  she  had  formed  a 
habit  of  choosing  and  seizing  suddenly,  she  did  not 
hesitate  and  secrete  and  essay,  as  do  the  Indians  gen 
erally,  but  turned  to  me  at  once  with  her  errand. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  if  you  could  lend  me  some  money." 
Above  the  hand  holding  the  violets  she  smiled  at  me. 


Teepee  Neighbors  169 

"You  know  I  goin'  to  need  it  soon  and  we've  not  got 
any,  really."  She  laughed  something  both  shy  and 
daring  in  the  sound.  "The  Indians  goin'  to  have  pay 
ment  in  two  months,  that's  what  we  hear,  but  that's 
not  soon  enough  for  me.  I  can  pay  you  back  then. 
Will  you  do  it  for  me?  I  don't  want  to  starve  when 
I'm  sick."  Again  a  low  laugh  escaped  her.  The  sleek 
head  was  tilted  a  little,  the  soft  lips  parted  in  anticipa 
tion,  the  questing  eyes  astir. 

"How  much  did  you  think  you'd  need?"  I  really 
had  no  intention  of  lending  the  money  to  her. 

"I  suppose  five  dollars.  Is  that  too  much?"  Her 
smile  was  almost  indulgent,  as  though  from  some  plane 
far  removed  from  me  she  looked  back  upon  me. 

"Oh !  my  dear,  that's  a  good  deal." 

She  made  with  her  hands  a  deprecating  gesture, 
gazed  at  me,  sighed. 

"Yes,  indeed  it  is."  And  all  of  a  sudden  something 
plaintive  came  into  her  eyes,  her  mouth,  pouting, 
drooping  at  the  corners.  She  stood  up,  the  hand  that 
held  the  violets  thrust  suddenly  out  to  steady  her ;  rib 
bons,  fringes,  skirts  fluttered  about  her.  "Yes,  I  sup 
pose  I  askin'  too  much." 

The  opinion  I  held  of  her  clamored  in  me  for  ut 
terance. 

"You're  only  sixteen,  Pauline,  aren't  you?  Just 
think!" 


170  Teepee  Neighbors 

She  looked  at  me  sharply,  in  her  face  a  quick  ex 
pression  of  unearthly  wisdom.  And  then  feeling 
poignantly  anew  the  emptiness  of  the  room  and  made 
a  little  reckless,  a  little  tender  by  the  consciousness 
of  it,  I  turned  impulsively.  "I'll  let  you  have  it,"  I  said, 
and  wondered  at  hearing  the  words  spoken  by  my  own 
voice. 

A  sudden  dimple  showed  in  the  curve  of  her  cheek 
and  seeing  it  you  felt  as  though  something  which  had 
been  lost  was  on  the  instant  returned  to  its  own  place. 
A  sense  of  proportion  came  to  you,  a  comfortable  feel 
ing  of  fitness. 

She  fluttered  across  the  room  to  me  holding  out  her 
hand  for  the  extended  cheque.  Then  she  stood  by 
me  turning  it  in  her  fingers,  her  sleek  head  bowed,  her 
wandering  eyes  bent  upon  it,  her  face  pensive,  the 
dimple  fled.  In  a  moment  she  raised  her  head  quickly 
and  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes.  She  stiffened  a 
little,  her  lips  parted  as  though  she  would  have  spoken. 
But,  although  I  waited,  no  word  escaped  her.  Instead 
a  tremor  passed  over  her  face  leaving  it  set  and  wan. 
She  drew  her  shawl  carefully  about  her,  stowing  away 
her  cheque  somewhere  in  the  recesses  of  her  clothes. 

"I'm  thankhV  you  very  much,"  she  said.  Her  voice 
was  soft  as  are  the  voices  of  Indian  women,  but  unlike 
the  majority  of  theirs  it  was  keyed  a  trifle  high. 

She  opened  the  door.    "Goodbye."    She  smiled  back 


Teepee  Neighbors  171 

to  me  over  her  shoulder,  and,  fluttering  and  eager,  she 
sped  away  across  the  field. 


Then  I  heard  that  the  baby  was  born. 

"Have  you  seen  it?"    I  asked  one  of  the  girls. 

Her  eyes  were  quickly  averted.    "No,  ma'am." 

"Have  you  seen  it?" 

Again  the  hastily  veiled  eyes,    "Why,  no." 

Yet  in  the  Indian  camps  the  advent  of  a  baby  is  such 
an  event!  There  are  smiles,  hand-shakings,  proud 
exhibitions  at  the  coming  of  each  little  new-born.  Why 
in  Pauline's  case  was  it  different?  I  did  not  wish  to 
understand  and  yet  seeing  and  hearing  what  I  did 
must  needs  do  so.  I  would  have  gone  myself  to  see 
the  baby  only  that  I  was  constrained  by  a  sense  of 
delicacy  amounting  almost  to  shyness.  If  they  should 
think  I  had  come  to  take  the  baby,  that  I  wanted  to 
deprive  them  of  it !  Except  on  that  one  occasion  there 
had  been  no  word  said  to  me  about  it.  But  well  I  knew 
they  were  aware  of  my  message  to  them.  Was  it  of 
that  the  litt'e  evil  mother  had  wanted  to  speak  to  me 
over  her  drying  cheque? 

At  last  when  she  came  out  and  began  going  about 
with  it,  some  of  them  looked  at  it. 

"Such  a  fat  baby!"  they  said.  "Oh!  a  beautiful 
baby.  But  so  white."  This  last  observation  was  always 


172  Teepee  Neighbors 

repeated  of  it.  That  meant  that  it  was  not  the  child  of 
the  one  they  had  named  to  me  as  its  father,  the  Indian 
who,  having  a  wife  already,  might  not  marry  the  little 
mother. 

The  girl  and  her  mother  lived  in  a  big,  conspicuous 
teepee  standing  tall  and  stately  on  the  flat,  sage-covered 
floor  of  the  valley.  But  it  had  been  erected  not  too  far 
from  the  trees  and  brush  growing  along  the  river. 
From  them  anyone  might  reach  it  with  discretion .  . . 

In  a  little  while  they  began  telling  about  the  camps 
that  the  baby  was  dead.  There  seemed  no  good  to  be 
had  from  questioning  them.  More  than  the  simple 
statement  of  the  fact  could  be  got  from  no  one. 

"But  was  it  sick?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  never  see  it." 

"Did  she  have  the  doctor  for  it?" 

"Oh  no!" 

"The  medicine  man,  I  suppose." 

"I  never  hear."  The  pleasant,  inpenetrable  faces 
were  averted  a  little  from  me. 

"Where  did  she  bury  it?" 

A  comprehensive  gesture  was  made  with  the  head 
and  lips.  "Up  there  in  the  hills,  I  suppose." 

Then  one  day  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  young 
mother.  She  was  speeding  on  foot  up  toward  the 
Agency,  her  hair,  worn  loose  now  in  conventional 
mourning,  floated  about  her.  She  seemed  to  be  a 


Teepee  Neighbors  173 

little  less  brightly  dressed,  her  moccasins  were  plainer  ; 
but  still  she  fluttered  as  she  walked.  Often  after  a 
death  when  the  hearts  are  still  torn  the  Indians  will 
not  look  at  you,  fearing,  I  suppose,  to  meet  the  com 
passion  in  your  eyes,  to  show  the  pain  in  theirs.  So  I 
was  prepared  to  pass  her  unrecognizing.  But  coming 
abreast  of  her,  from  under  her  hair,  like  the  eyes  of  a 
restless  sprite,  hers  were  lifted  to  mine.  A  smile  parted 
her  soft  lips,  recalled  the  dimple. . . 

I  think  I  only  stared  at  her.  Once  past  her,  over  my 
shoulder  I  looked  back  at  her  slight  figure,  eager,  bend 
ing  forward,  hurrying,  furtive,  noiseless,  her  hair  and 
shawl  fluttering  behind  her,  and  on  her  face,  I  must 
suppose,  that  little  shining  smile,  that  had  gleamed 
where,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  any  light  would  have  been 
an  intrusion. 

Suddenly  I  carried  a  hand  to  my  empty  breast  and 
lifting  my  eyes  to  the  hills  that  bordered  the  valley  I 
searched  absently  for  that  invisible  place  where  lay  the 
little  sleeping  baby  that  had  not  been  wanted. 


THE  AGRICULTURALIST 

HE  CAME  into  our  house  and  sank  down  into  the  first 
chair  that  offered  itself,  the  very  picture  of  despair. 
All  the  lines  of  his  rugged,  homely  face  were  drawn 
downward,  his  eyes  were  blurred  and  sunken,  his  body 
drooped  as  though  sustained  by  his  will  alone.  Of 
speech  he  seemed  utterly  bereft. 

I  greeted  him  guardedly.  I  dared  not  question  him. 
What  could  it  be?  Had  some  one  of  his  household 
died?  What  other  explanation  could  account  for  such 
dejection?  In  vain  I  searched  my  brain  to  recollect  a 
moribund  member  of  his  family.  Something  sudden 
must  have  occurred.  I  looked  at  him;  I  dared  not 
speak,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or  to  leave  unsaid. 

But,  understanding  the  Indians  as  I  did  I  was 
convinced  that  in  his  own  time  he  would  unbosom  him 
self.  If  I  could  have  given  him  some  refreshment  it 
might  have  loosened  his  tongue  but  it  was  the  middle 
of  the  morning,  an  awkward  time  for  house-keepers, 
and  really  I  had  nothing  to  offer  him. 

So  I  stirred  about  at  my  work  making  my  presence 
as  inconspicuous  as  I  might. 

Then  at  last  the  explanation  came,  almost  epic  in  its 
naked  despair. 

"I  been  to  the  store.  They  won't  trust  me.  At  home 
we  got  nothing  nothin'.  And  there's  no  work."  His 

174 


Teepee  Neighbors  175 

eyes  turned  miserably  in  the  direction  of  his  home.  "My 
children  are  cryin'." 

I  stood  before  him,  filled  with  sympathy,  listening. 

"I  work  summer  before  last.  I  raise  potatoes,  a  good 
crop.  But  that  cold  time  round  Thanksgivin'  they  all 
freeze.  We  just  throw  them  out  in  the  road.  Beside 
that  I  raise  oats.  Then  all  through  the  winter  I  sell 
oats,  a  sack  at  a  time.  That  give  us  food.  That  last 
till  nearly  summer.  Then  this  summer  I  plow,  I  sow 
oats  again,  I  work  hard.  I  irrigate.  They  grow  fine, 
them  oats ;  high,  thick.  Then  I  go  up  to  the  Agency 
for  the  reaper.  But  it's  broken.  I  ask  the  engineer  fix 
it  for  me.  He's  too  busy.  I  go  see  the  clerk.  He 
promise.  I  wait.  Then  I  go  see  the  agent.  He  promise 
too.  I  wait  some  more.  It's  past  time  to  harvest,  my 
crop  it's  spoilin'.  I  try  to  borrow  a  reaper  from  the 
school.  They  won't  lend  theirs.  The  other  two  Agency 
ones,  they  gone.  The  men  that  got  'em  they  can't  give 
'em  to  me,  so  many  askin'  for  them  before  me.  I  try 
fix  that  machine  myself,  but  I  can't  do  it  good.  I  ask 
the  engineer  again.  He  still  busy,  he  say . . .  Then  there 
come  a  hail  storm  and  cut  my  crop  for  me."  A  long 
breath  escaped  him.  "After  that  there  wasn't  nothin' 
to  do  but  turn  the  stock  in  on  it." 

"Ah-ee!"  I  cried,  Indian-way.  Then  I  turned  on 
him  suddenly.  "It's  nearly  spring  now.  Has  that 
reaper  ever  been  mended  ?" 


176  Teepee  Neighbors 

"No.  I  guess  that  past  mendin'."  But  his  mind 
wandered  back  to  his  lost  crop.  "Them  oats  they  were 
fine.  I  buy  my  own  seed-oats  from  the  Agency  store. 
Some  them  Agency  seed-oats  what  they  issue  to  the 
Indians  they  got  wild  oats  mixed  in  with  them.  Wild 
oats  they  hurt  the  stock.  You  can't  sell  good  oats  with 
them  mixed  in.  But  my  crop  ain't  got  none  o'  that 
kind."  He  ceased  wearily,  sunk  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  might  lend  you  some  money,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me,  but  apathetically.  "Then  I  could 
buy  my  children  somethin'." 

I  placed  the  money  in  his  hand.  "Cheer  up,"  I  said. 
"You'll  have  better  luck  next  year." 

"I  would  hire  a  machine,  pay  for  it  from  the  crop, 
but  I  can't  find  one  nowhere.  New  they  cost  seventy- 
five  dollars.  I  can't  buy  one." 

"No,  no.  The  Government  doesn't  mean  that  you 
shall  have  to.  It  intends  to  provide  that  for  you." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  that  Government's  in  Washing 
ton,  a  long  way  off.  It  can't  make  engineers  work  when 
they  busy  way  out  here  on  the  reservation." 

"Where,"  I  ventured,  "are  the  two  good  reapers 
now?" 

"Layin'  out  in  the  sage  brush.  Them  folks  they 
don't  bring  'em  back  to  the  Agency  and  the  agent  he 
don't  make  'em." 

"Next  year  those  will  be  broken  too." 


Teepee  Neighbors  177 

He  sighed.     Then  he  looked  at  the  money  in  his 
hand.    "I  thank  you,"  he  said. 


THE  INFORMERS 

"Cheyenne,  Wyo. 
Nov.  6. 
Dear  Friend : — 

I  want  to  ask  you  go  see  my  wife.  Indians  they 
write  me  she  horned  her  baby  and  she  don't  get  well. 
I  ask  you  go  see.  Give  her  money.  I  know  them  folks 
they  poor  cause  my  oat  crop  fail.  Nobody  be  there 
to  water  it  after  I  have  to  go  way.  When  I  come  out 
this  place  I  work  for  you.  I  pay.  Tell  her  me  I  be  all 
right.  I  ain't  sorry  here  in  prison.  Three  months  I 
guess  it  go  quick. 

Your  friend 
Henry  Howling  Crane. 

I  just  like  say  to  you  I  never  did  have  no  whiskey  in 
my  tent.  No  more  don't  Arthur.  He  say  so.  That 
Agency  man  must  put  in  that  coat  pocket  himself 
make  trouble  for  us.  Arthur  and  me  we  thinking  that. 

Henry." 

I  turned  the  little,  blue-lined  sheet  over  and  about. 
I  stared  at  its  straggling,  ill- formed  words,  at  its  fre 
quent  smudged  thumb  marks.  Then  I  read  its  contents 
again. 

The  Half-breed,  through  the  blue  of  his  cigarette 
smoke,  eyed  me  curiously. 

"Do  you  know  the  whole  story?"  he  asked. 
178 


Teepee  Neighbors  179 

"About  the  finding  of  the  whiskey?     Why,  yes." 
"I  said  the  whole  story ;  the  first  part  especially." 
"I  didn't  know  there  was  a  first  part." 
"I  thought  not,  but  there  was.    You  never  heard  of 
the  great  Agency  graft  case  that  happened  before  you 
came  here,  five — no,  six — years  ago?" 

"Of  course  I've  heard  of  it.  You  mean  the  time 
that  half  the  money  appropriated  by  the  Government 
for  the  building  of  laterals  from  the  main  ditch  was 
said  to  have  been  stolen  ?  That  time  the  Indians  came 
up  to  the  Agency  to  be  paid  for  their  work  on  the 
laterals  and  the  cheques  were  passed  to  them  backs  up 
ward,  over  the  agent's  counter?  And  the  men  were 
directed  how  to  endorse  them  and  were  made  to  do  so 
without  turning  them  over?  Then  when  the  cheques 
were  signed  they  were  at  once  withdrawn  and  the 
Indians  were  handed  out  the  amount  in  cash  they 
knew  to  be  due  them..  Each  man  receiving  his  full  pay 
was  consequently  satisfied.  It  was  a  simple  enough 
trick  and  it  would  have  worked  all  right  if  some  of 
the  younger  men  had  not  become  curious.  'They  never 
gave  us  our  pay  that  way  before,'  they  said.  Then  two 
or  three  of  them  snatched  their  cheques  and  turned 
them-  over .  . .  The  sums  written  on  the  faces  amounted 
to  double  and  more  what  the  men  were  receiving." 

"And  were  you  told  which  men  turned  the  cheques 
over  and  what  they  did  then?" 


i8o  Teepee  Neighbors 

"I  heard  there  were  three  of  them  who  signed  that 
letter  to  the  commissioner  in  Washington,  the  letter 
that  exposed  the  whole  graft  and  asked  that  an  inves 
tigation  be  made.  And  then  an  inspector  came,  and  he 
made  it  pretty  hot  for  the  whole  Agency.  And  finally 
after  the  findings  had  been  sent  to  Washington  and  an 
answer  received,  an  employee  and  a  trader  were  sum 
marily  ejected  from  the  reservation.  The  agent  and 
the  other  trader,  who  were  said  to  have  been  involved, 
saved  their  official  necks  by  no  more  than  a  hair's 
breadth.  And  now  the  only  reason — or  so  most  people 
seem  to  think — that  the  lot  of  them  aren't  putting  in 
a  few  well  earned  years  in  the  Rawlins  'pen/  is  be 
cause  the  affair  took  place  in  a  year  of  important 
elections — just  before  them,  in  fact — and  the  votes  and 
influence  of  the  gang  were  needed  by  the  senator  and 
the  others,  who  stood  behind  the  grafters." 

The  cynical  eyes  narrowed.  "Ah !  I  see  you've 
got  us  here  put  up  pretty  pat... And  the  names  of 
the  three  informers,  do  you  happen  to  know  them?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

The  Half-breed  got  up  and  so  suddenly  that  it  might 
almost  have  been  said  that  he  leapt  to  his  feet;  with 
nervous,  soundless  steps  he  crossed  over  to  the  stove 
and  cast  into  it  the  butt  of  his  cigarette. 

"One  was  James  Badger— he's  dead."  He  wheeled 
about,  fixing  me  with  his  eye.  "The  other  two  were 


Teepee  Neighbors  181 

Arthur  Broken  Horn  and — "  his  hand  waived  airily 
toward  my  letter,  "your  correspondent." 

"How  strange, — "     I  began,  not  knowing  just  how 
much  of  the  implication  I  was  expected  to  understand. 

"You  think  so?" 

I  folded  the  letter  primly  and  inserted  it  in  its 
envelope. 

"Do  sit  down.  You  make  me  fidgetty  when  you 
prance." 

He  stopped,  looked  at  me,  laughed — and  sat  down. 

"I  will,"  he  said. 

Then  ensued  a  half-minute's  silence. 

"May  I  smoke  again?" 

"Of  course." 

He  selected  a  cigarette  from  his  case,  twisted  it  in 
his  lean,  yellow  fingers,  lit  it,  carried  it  to  his  lips. 
Then  he  flung  himself  about  in  his  chair,  settling  the 
length  of  him  at  some  sort  of  ease.  There  was  some 
thing  lithe  and  yet  lazy  in  the  pose  of  the  man,  alert 
though  somnolent. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  theory  ?" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  you  haven't  got  to  the  theory 
yet." 

"Oh!  haven't  I?"  The  mocking  eyes  searched  the 
depths  of  mine. 

"Of  course  Arthur  and  Henry  are  the  last  ones 
anyone  would  have  suspected  of  caching  whiskey,  or  of 


182  Teepee  Neighbors 

giving  it  to  the  school  boys.  That  last  was  the  charge 
they  were  sent  up  on,  was  it  not?" 

He  nodded.  "Do  you  remember  how  the  whiskey 
was  found?" 

"Yes.  An  Agency  employee  who  had  no  ostensible 
business  in  the  Indian  camp  suddenly  burst  into  their 
tent — Arthur  and  Henry  were  camping  together. 
They  are  great  friends,  you  know — " 

"I  do.  And  I  know  also  that  the  stars  were  in  felici 
tous  conjunction  that  day  and  that  the  Agency  white 
man  is  a  great  watcher  of  the  Heavens — "  He  puffed 
out  a  thick  cloud  of  smoke. 

" — the  employee  offered  no  word  of  explanation 
but  began  to  rummage  furiously.  Before  the  astonish 
ed  inmates  of  the  tent  could  make  a  move  to  stop  him 
he  had  burst  into  their  grub-box,  even  stripped  their 
beds  of  the  covers.  At  last  he  unearthed  an  old 
slicker  and  from  its  pockets  produced  two  bottles  partly 
filled  with  whiskey.  Then  he  cried  out  his  accusation 
to  the  two  still  bewildered  men,  and  with  his  booty, 
disappeared.  In  a  little  while  the  Indian  police  came 
and  arrested  the  fellows." 

"Correct.  And  did  you  know  that  before  the  police 
men  came  the  wives,  and  some  of  the  steadiest  of  the 
old  men,  wanted  those  two  to  skip  off  and  hide ;  prom 
ised,  in  fact,  to  see  and  keep  them  safely  cached .  . .  ?" 

"And  they  wouldn't  go?" 


Teepee  Neighbors  183 

"They  wouldn't  go." 

"...I  have  always  felt  Henry  was  such  a  good 
man.  He  takes  care  of  that  blind  boy,  you  know,  and 
that  old  woman,  neither  of  them  any  relation  to  him. 
I  understand — " 

"Ah,  'goodV  Ambiguous  term!  Kind,  if  you  like, 
but  not  necessarily.  . . " 

"I  know.  I  know,"  I  interrupted.  "I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say,  all  of  it,  but  must  you  condemn 
too?" 

He  straightened  himself  in  his  chair,  composed  his 
face  as  by  an  effort.  He  shook  his  head.  "There's 
been  condemnation  enough.  I'll  cast  no  stones — "  he 
dropped  his  eyes,  "for  your  sake." 

"Rather,  for  Henry's." 

"Rather  for  Henry's.  I'm  sorry.  He  is  good.  You 
see  I  make  amends.  Yes,  good,  as  the  patient  ox  be 
fore  the  butcher's  axe ;  good,  but  maddening." 

"But  the  odds  against  him!  What  could  he  have 
done?" 

"Nothing.  No  more  than  could  the  ox.  But  he 
maddens  me  just  the  same." 

I  sighed. 

"But  he  is  good.  Especially  just  now  by  compar 
ison." 

"He  is."    I  spoke  severely.    "Of  course  the  Indians 


1 84  Teepee  Neighbors 

do  smuggle  lots  of  liquor  into  the  reservation,  but 
Henry  is  not  one  of  those  who  do  it  habitually  at  any 
rate.  Beside  that  he  would  hardly  have  been  so  foolish 
as  to  have  risked  such  facile  discovery " 

"Exactly,"  said  the  smooth,  cynical  voice.  The 
black  eyes  twinkled. 

I  picked  up  the  letter  from  my  lap.  "He  writes  me 
that  his  wife's  sick  now.  It  seems  that  there's  a  new 
baby — Do  you  know  anything  about  it?" 

Again  the  Half-breed  flung  himself  out  of  his  chair 
and  up  and  down  the  room  on  nervous  feet;  for  all 
the  world,  I  thought,  like  a  caged  thing. 

"I  do,"  he  said.  "The  baby  died.  He'll  never  see  it, 
Henry  won't — that  is,  not  this  side  of  Jordan."  His 
steely  eyes  almost  leered  at  me,  his  mouth  twisted 
scornfully.  Then  he  got  himself  together  again.  "But 
I  moist  be  going.  I've  stayed  gossiping  too  long... 
Goodbye." 

Just  perceptibly  he  hesitated,  then  he  did,  for  him,  a 
most  unusual  thing.  In  striding  past  me  he  checked 
his  dash  for  the  door,  and  stopped,  almost  wavering, 
before  me.  Then  he  held  out  his  hand.  He  did  not 
look  at  me. 

I  took  the  hand.  "I'll  go  down  to  the  camp  to 
morrow,"  I  said. 

He  lifted  his  gaze  to  my  face,  and  suddenly  I  saw 


Teepee  Neighbors  185 

that  his  eyes  had  grown  soft,  even  pleading,  like  a 
dog's. 

"Do."  He  no  more  than  whispered  the  word,  and 
turning  on  his  hurried,  soundless  feet  he  quit  the  room. 


A  MATTER  OF  CUSTOM 

HE  WAS  a  small  man  for  an  Indian,  with  a  face  that 
bore  a  look  at  once  baffled  and  yearning,  like  a  child 
who  though  repulsed,  returns.  His  skin  was  very  pale, 
with  that  sallow,  shadowless  look  that  denotes  with 
Indians  sickness  or  disturbance  of  soul.  He  sat  in  the 
stale  and  dingy  railroad  car,  crowded  close  to  the  win 
dow  ledge,  slumped  low  in  his  seat,  his  eyes  fixed 
blindly  upon  the  fugitive  landscape.  Beside  him  was 
the  sheriff,  in  heavy  coat  and  wide  hat,  his  elbows  and 
shoulders  filling  the  major  part  of  the  seat.  The  young 
Indian  himself  was  in  clothes  as  thin  as  they  were 
threadbare,  though  brushed  to  an  irreproachable  neat 
ness,  and  adjusted  with  nicety.  He  sat  at  a  sort  of 
numbed  ease,  except  that  the  muscles  about  his  jaw 
twitched  and  trembled  spasmodically. 

As  I  entered  the  car  and  remarked  him,  I  went 
at  once  to  him.  When,  Heaven  knows  with  conscious 
gentleness  I  called  his  name,  a  look  so  startled  that  it 
was  almost  one  of  agony,  convulsed  his  face.  It  was 
instantly  suppressed.  He  took  my  proffered  hand, 
lifted  his  eyes  to  mine — eyes  large,  and  gentle  for  one 
of  his  keen  race.  We  did  not  speak.  There  was  indeed 
nothing  to  be  said.  The  thing  from  every  point  of 
view  was  past  words  of  ours. 

Then  I  let  go  his  hand  and  quickly  he  withdrew  it, 
186 


Teepee  Neighbors  187 

tucking  it  out  of  sight  at  his  side,  as  though  he  were 
thankful  that  he  might  conceal  that  much  of  himself. 

A  voice  called  me  by  name.  I  turned.  An  oldish 
man,  also  in  overcoat  and  wide  hat,  and  seated  a  little 
way  behind  the  young  Indian's  place,  was  beckoning 
to  me.  I  did  not  recognize  him  but  the  look  of  his  face 
was  so  urgent  that  I  went  at  once  at  his  call.  He 
crowded  over  toward  the  window,  making  room  for  me 
beside  him. 

"You  know  him?"  he  asked,  and  eagerly. 

"Oh,  yes!  Well/' 

"Then  tell  me  about  the  case.  Tell  me  everything 
you  can." 

I  looked  at  him  helplessly.  The  charge  on  which  the 
young  Indian  was  arrested  was  indeed  to  me  an  un- 
namable  one.  It  bore  a  strange,  mediaeval  appellation, 
which  I  myself  had  never  heard  in  use  until  I  came 
to  live  among  Agency-governed  Indians. 

The  man  continued.  "I'm  called  on  the  jury.  It's 
a  United  States  case,  you  know,  to  be  tried  down  in 
Cheyenne;  not  locally.  It's  a  serious  charge,  you 
realize  that.  It'll  mean  five  years  for  him,  the  way 
things  appear.  Maybe  more." 

I  looked  at  him.  "There  are  two  men  now,"  I  said, 
"in  Leavenworth  serving  five  year  sentences,  on  that 
same  charge." 

"You  see."    There  was  no  mistaking  the  earnestness 


i88  Teepee  Neighbors 

of  the  man.    His  eyes  looked  as  grave  even  as  I  felt 
mine  to  be. 

"It's  a  horrid  charge  and — I  don't  know  much  about 
Indians.  I've  always  understood  though  that  they 
were  decent, — at  least  decent.  Tell  me,  is  he  that  other 
kind  of  a  man?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  know  him  well.  His  first  wife, — she 
lived  only  a  little  while — was  one  of  the  girls  I  was 
fondest  of.  He  was  a  good  husband  to  her.  I  believe 
him  to  be  steady  and  self-respecting,  even  high-minded. 
This  affair  has  been  going  on  a  long  time,  you  know, 
though  it  is  only  just  now  that  the  agent  is  taking 
action." 

"Why?"  his  eyes  as  well  as  his  voice  demanded. 

"I— don't  just  know." 

"Do  you  think  it's  spite  work?" 

"No  I  don't.  I'll  give  the  devil  his  due.  It's  not  all 
that  at  any  rate." 

"How  much?" 

"You  see  this  Indian  and  his  wife  are  both  rather 
prominent  young  people,  and  they  have  had  certain 
advantages,  in  the  matter  of  schooling;  and  I  sup 
pose  what  they  did  was  more  of  a  disappointment  to 
the  agent  than  the  same  thing  would  have  been  in 
others.  She's  not  over  school  age  yet,  not  past 
eighteen." 


Teepee  Neighbors  189 

"They're  obliged  to  stay  in  school  till  they're 
eighteen?" 

"Yes.  But  as  long  ago  as  the  summer  before  last 
these  two  lived  together,  were  married,  you  understand, 
in  the  Indian  way.  And  when  it  came  time  for  her  to 
go  back  to  school  they  went  to  the  agent  together  and 
asked  him  for  a  marriage  license.  This  he  refused 
them  on  the  ground  of  her  being  under  age.  She  then 
returned  to  school,  and  quietly  enough.  And  she 
stayed  there  faithfully  throughout  the  entire  year, 
though  in  the  Christmas  holidays  she  went  back  to 
this  man,  her  husband.  Her  mother  was  living  then; 
they  all  occupied  one  tent  together.  He  even  gave  her 
family  presents  for  her,  I  understand.  Some  of  the 
girls  told  me  so.  There  was  not  the  slightest  secrecy 
or  effort  at  concealment  in  the  whole  affair.  They 
shared  one  tent.  She  cooked  for  him  and  waited  on 
him.  He  paid  her  bills  and  her  mother's  at  the  store. 
They  were  seen  everywhere  together,  she  sitting  on 
the  seat  of  the  wagon  beside  him,  with  Indians  the 
wife's  place.  Then  when  school  was  over  that  year 
they  again  asked  for  a  license.  She  is  all  but  eighteen. 
Frequently,  of  course,  when  there  is — a  reason,  the  age 
limit  is  waived,  and  the  girls  are  allowed  to  marry. 
But  there  was  no  reason,  in  this  case.  Once  more  the 
license  was  refused  and  the  girl  was  told  that  she  must 
again  in  the  fall  go  back  to  school.  But  when  she  went 


Teepee  Neighbors 

back  and  the  agent  understood  at  last  how  things  werer 
he  was  furious. 

"And  now  they  are  trying  him  as  though  she  were 
a  child  and  he  a  man  who  had  taken  base  advantage 
of  her." 

"Hell !"  said  the  man— "I  beg  your  pardon." 

"You  needn't." 

"Well,  if  he  hasn't  done  what  they  charge  him  with, 
what  has  he  done  ?  There  seems  to  be  at  least  a  mod 
icum  of  fault." 

"He  has  disobeyed  the  agent." 

"But  that's  no  criminal  offense." 

"No,  though  I  understand  there  exists  a  ruling  of 
not  so  very  recent  date  that  Indians  must  be  married 
legally." 

"That,  then,  is  wherein  he  has  offended." 

"Yes.  He  did  what  his  father  and  grandfather  and 
all  his  people  had  done  before  him.  He  wooed  and 
won  according  to  the  custom  of  his  own  people,  and 
then  at  the  demand  of  his  dominant  neighbors  he  would 
have  married  in  their  way,  had  he  been  allowed.  He 
tried  to,  twice.  Of  course  even  in  trying  he  was  guilty 
of  forcing  things. . ." 

"I'll  swear  again  if  you're  not  careful." 

"But  oh!  they  shouldn't  try  him  on  that  dreadful 
charge ;  that  bitter,  insulting  accusation  that  hits  him  in 
his  manhood  and  her  in  her  motherhood." 


Teepee  Neighbors  191 

A  sudden  movement  ahead  of  us  drew  our  attention. 
The  young  Indian  was  leaning  forward,  half  rising  to 
his  feet,  peering  across  the  aisle  and  through  the  oppo 
site  window.  The  train  was  just  passing  over  the  last 
corner  of  the  reservation.  To  one  side,  on  a  hill  top, 
silhouetted  against  the  pale,  remote  sky  of  the  plains, 
stood  a  rapt  and  immobile  figure;  man  or  woman  we 
could  not  tell  which.  Then  the  train  shot  into  a  cut 
and  out  again,  taking  thence  a  new  direction.  The 
young  man  slumped  back  into  his  seat,  again  hastily 
thrusting  out  of  sight  his  hands.  His  chin  dropped  to 
the  level  of  his  breast. 

The  Half-breed  knocked,  opening  my  door  almost 
simultaneously.  From  a  pocket  of  his  canvas  jacket 
protruded  a  newspaper  which  I  recognized  as  being  a 
Cheyenne  one. 

"Nannie's  back/'  he  said. 

"Ah !  Nannie's  back,  and  safely.    And  Jared?" 

"Jared  is  to  cool  his  heels  for  six  months  at  Raw- 
lins." 

"They  convicted  him !" 

"But,  my  dear  lady,"  and  the  narrow,  cynical  eyes 
opened  suddenly  wide,  "you  didn't  expect  they'd  let  him 
off?  He  may  be  thankful  it's  six  months  instead  of 
as  many  years.  He'll  see  his  son  before  it  can  walk  at 
any  rate." 


192  Teepee  Neighbors 

"His  son?" 

"I  understand  there's  a  son/' 

"But  why  must  they  always  convict  them?  I  never 
heard  of  an  Indian  on  trial  being  exonerated.  Stop 
being  horrid  and  tell  me  the  reason." 

"The  reason?  Really  you  ought  to  know  it.  It's 
because  when  we  Indians  aren't  dead  we're  considered 
next  safest  behind  bars.  So  it's  rather  a  matter  of  race 
pride  on  the  part  of  the  whites  to  see  us  safely  there, 
I  fancy." 

I  pushed  a  chair  toward  him.  "Considering  me," 
I  said,  "you're  rude.  Beside  which  cynicism  is  not 
always  an  ornament." 

He  pulled  the  paper  from  his  pocket  and  held  it 
out  to  me.  "No,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "but  it's  a 
refuge." 


THE  DAY  DREAM 

IT  WAS  before  she  left  me  that  day  that  I  told  her  of 
my  dream.  For  a  long  time  I  had  wished,  vaguely,  that 
she  might  know  of  it.  And  yet  before  the  child  had 
died  I  never  had  had  courage  enough  to  relate  it  to  her. 
But  today,  almost  before  I  realized  what  I  was  doing  I 
began  telling  her  of  it. 

"There  is  something  I  have  wanted  to  say  to  you/' 
I  said.  "It  is  a  very  strange  thing.  I — I  want  to  tell 
you  of  a  dream  I  had,  oh!  long  ago,  before  indeed  you 
sent  me  that  note  asking  me  to  get  the  doctor  for  your 
little  Millicent,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  wrote  you  that." 

"I  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes  when  I  read  the 
letter — Sits-in-the-Night  brought  it  to  me — and  still 
less  when  I  found  your  name  at  the  end  of  it.  It  was 
the  very  night  before,  the  morning  before  to  be  exact, 
that  I  had  had  my  dream,  about  you — about  her." 

She  looked  at  me  strangely.    "You  dreamt  of  her?" 

"I  thought  I  was  there,  in  the  kitchen,  and  I  heard 
wheels  driving  up  to  our  hitching  rack  and  stopping; 
then  voices,  then  steps.  Finally  people  came — women 
— crossing  in  front  of  the  kitchen  window.  They 
seemed  to  be  passing  around  toward  the  back  where 
the  door  opens.  I  recognized  Sadie,  she  had  Hannah 

193 


194  Teepee  Neighbors 

on  her  back,  high  up  on  her  shoulders.  You  know  the 
way  she  always  packs  her  babies." 

"Yevl'know." 

"And  Lottie  was  with  them,  and  Amy.  They  wore 
old  shawls,  their  leggings  were  failing  about  their 
ankles,  they  looked  draggled  and  torn  and  their  hair 
was  hanging  wild  and  loose  about  them — " 

"Ah-eef 

"And  they  were  crying.  Sadie  opened  the  door  and 
came  in.  Tears  were  running  down  her  face.  The 
other  women  stood  outside  and  wailed  softly,  but 
bitterly,  oh!  bitterly.  Then  Sadie  explained.  She 
said  your  baby  was  dead.  'Mollie's  baby  is  dead. 
Millicent  is  dead.  We  goin'  to  bury  her.  We  want 
you  to  come.  She  is  out  there  in  the  wagon,  all  wrap 
ped  in  the  quilts — and  Mollie  is  there  too.  We  goin' 
to  dig  the  grave.  Won't  you  come  ?'  And  all  the  time 
those  two  out  there  kept  wailing,  wailing.  I  had  never 
heard  them  so  near  before,  crying  that  bitter  way,  nor 
such  young  women.  It  is  generally  the  old  grand 
mothers  and  far  off  to  one  side  at  the  burial  that  you 
hear." 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  began  reaching  out  my  hands  every  way; 
putting  things  to  rights  in  the  kitchen,  getting  my 
wraps  on,  preparing  to  go  with  them.  I  fumbled  and 
blundered.  Everything  was  confused  as  so  often  it 


Teepee  Neighbors  195 

is  in  dreams.  This  seemed  to  go  on  for  a  long  while. 
And  all  the  time  those  two  outside " 

"Ah-ee!" 

"And  beside  their  crying  a  sort  of  chorus  sounded ; 
far  off,  very  faint  but  very  penetrating,  a  surge  of 
voices;  as  though  all  the  crying  of  all  the  mothers 
bereft  throughout  the  ages  was  audible  to  me ...  Then 
I  woke  up  and  I  was  crying  too.  My  face  was  all  wet 
with  tears." 

She  still  stared  at  me  strangely,  her  eyes  searching 
the  depths  of  mine.  Once  she  shifted  her  glance  but 
quickly  looked  back  at  me  again.  A  white  woman 
would  have  been  upon  her  feet,  torturing  her  fingers ; 
but  she  was  Indian,  and  upon  her  lay,  to  her  almost 
tangibly,  the  weight  of  the  hopeless  ages  past  and  to 
come.  So  she  only  looked  at  me,  in  her  eyes  the  res 
ignation  of  one  to  whom  hope  has  been  ever  deferred. 

"That  was  before  I  received  the  letter.  I  had  not 
heard  the  slightest  whisper  of  Millicent  being  ill." 

Then  she  leaned  toward  me,  something  acute  and 
desirous  in  the  action,  the  pose.  With  who  could  say 
what  of  poignancy,  of  anxiety,  of  mysticism,  she  put 
me  a  question  which  to  this  day  I  have  never  under 
stood. 

Her  eyes  blazed  into  mine.  "Did  you  dream  that  'in 
the  day  time?"  she  cried. 


THE  UNBORN 

HER  FEET  were  upon  the  flying  treadle  of  my  machine, 
her  fingers  poised  over  the  creeping  material;  above 
her  watching  eyes  her  brows  frowned  a  little,  as  in  her 
scant  calico  and  close-wrapped  shawl  she  bent  above 
her  work.  Her  hair  was  parted  sedately  in  the  middle, 
one  long  delicate  line  drawn  from  forehead  to  neck. 
Its  dark  meshes  hung  unbraided,  but  gathered  close  and 
pressed  against  her  head,  disclosing  its  gentle  curves, 
and  although  falling  loose  was  restrained  by  her  en 
folding  shawl.  She  worked  swiftly,  and  with  that 
despatch  which  denotes  skill;  yet  also  with  an  air  un 
hurried,  leisurely,  after  the  manner  of  her  people,  who 
work,  but  ever,  at  the  call  of  friendliness  or  need,  feel 
free  to  lay  down  the  burden  and  check  the  pace.  So 
ever  and  anon  she  paused,  pressing  her  fingers  upon 
the  flying  upper  wheel,  restraining  its  progress;  and 
across  the  intervening  machine  lifting  her  eyes  to  mine. 
With  her  she  had  brought  her  sewing  ready  cut  and 
folded  together.  On  the  floor  at  one  side  of  her  lay 
the  heap  of  fitted  pieces,  on  the  other  the  finished  fruit 
of  her  accomplishment.  Now  she  was  busy  laying 
together  two  squares  of  brightly  flowered  calico,  turn 
ing  'in  their  meeting  edges,  stitching  them  securely. 
"You'll  not  make  any  little  clothes  for  it?" 
"No  little  first  clothes,  we  don't  never  dress  them  in 
the  beginning,  you  know."  Her  eyes  dropped  to  the 
squares  under  her  hands.  "We  just  wrap  them  up." 

196 


Teepee  Neighbors  197 

"I  feel  glad  that  you  are  going  to  have  another." 

She  sighed,  still  eyeing  and  fingering  her  sewing. 
"I  should  like  to  have  a  lot  of  children,  and  my  husband 
would  like  it  too." 

"You  are  young.    You  will  have  them." 

"But  when  they  die " 

"Ah  you  needn't  tell  me  of  that!" 

She  began  turning  the  treadle  slowly,  guiding  the 
work  with  her  slim,  brown  fingers. 

"I  always  feel  sorry  that  your  sister  does  not  have 
any  more." 

She  stayed  the  wheel,  looking  up  at  me  strangely. 
"She  don't  want  no  more." 

"Doesn't  want  them?  But  I  thought  all  Indians 
loved  children  so  much." 

"You  know  she  has  buried  her  three." 

"And  now  she  is  afraid." 

"I  guess  that's  it — she  takes  something. . ." 

"What !  Do  Indian  women  do  that  ?  But  then  they 
are  as  bad  as  the  whites." 

"Whites,  they  do  that  too?  With  us  the  old  women 
they  know  a  root.  They  dig  it  up  and  pound  it  fine 
and  tie  it  up  in  little  bags  and  the  women  that  don't 
want  no  babies,  they  take  it." 

She  regarded  me  long  with  her  mirthful,  strange 
gaze.  "I  think,"  she  said,  her  eyes  although  still  upon 


198  Teepee  Neighbors 

me  giving  me  the  effect  of  not  remarking  me,  "I  think 
it  is  better  to  want  children.  After  all  God  made  us 
women — " 

"And  a  woman  who  isn't  a  mother — •"    I  interrupted. 

"Oh !"  cried  she.  "That's  the  hardest  of  all.  The 
women  cry  and  cut  their  hair  and  gash  their  legs  and 
go  in  rags  when  their  babies  die,  but  it's  better  to  be  a 
mother  of  dead  children  than  not  to  be  a  mother  at  all." 

Again  her  eyes  and  fingers  took  cognizance  of  the 
work  waiting  beneath  her  hands. 

I  got  up  suddenly  and  crossed  over  to  my  treasure 
trunk.  From  it  I  brought  forth  a  little  yellowed  gar 
ment.  I  held  it  out  to  her.  Our  eyes  rested  upon  it ; 
not  upon  each  other.  Then  I  spoke. 

"Do  you  mind,"  I  said,  "because  he  died?" 

She  reached  out  and  took  it,  folded  it  slowly,  and  laid 
it  upon  the  heap  of  her  finished  work. 

"Oh  no!"  she  said.  "I  don't  mind.  Mine — mine 
died  too." 


THE  MAN'S  PART 

THE  BIG,  square,  barren,  rude  room  which  in  its  exist 
ence  had  progressed  from  store  to  school-room  and  on 
to  council  hall,  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  a  throng 
of  anachronous  humanity,  rank  on  rank,  tier  behind 
tier.  There  was  the  sound  of  moccasins  slipping  grit- 
tily  over  the  knotty  floor,  of  the  dull,  rhythmic  thudding 
of  a  mother's  foot  as  she  trotted  her  fretful  baby,  the 
rustling  of  soft  garments,  the  stirring  of  unhurried 
bodies,  the  hissing  of  stealthy  whispers.  Here  and 
there  two  Indians  might  be  seen  conversing  in  the 
sign  language ;  their  hands,  shielded  from  sight  by  en 
circling  backs,  were  lifted  scarcely  above  the  level  of 
their  laps. 

The  people  were  massed  one  might  say  ethnolog- 
ically.  The  main  part  of  the  crowd  was  Indian,  squat 
ting,  seated  on  benches,  or  standing  leaning  against 
the  walls.  The  two  tribes  sat  separately,  as  did  also 
the  sexes  of  each.  To  right  and  left  at  the  tapering 
ends  of  the  rows  were  the  mixed-bloods,  dressed 
mainly  like  the  whites  except  that  their  garments 
looked  more  home-made,  more  patternless,  more  illy 
put.  Then  quite  at  one  end  of  the  room  and  grouped 
about  the  chairman's  table  sat  the  whites;  school  and 
Agency  employees,  traders,  soldiers,  ranch  neighbors; 
an  indifferent,  self -seeking,  heterogeneous  group.  In 

199 


2OO  Teepee  Neighbors 

the  midst  of  these  last,  dapper,  conspicuously  well- 
dressed,  and  well-groomed,  presided  the  inspector  from 
Washington.  His  old,  dignified  face,  slightly  pompous, 
was  crowned  with  grey  hair  brushed  back  from  his 
brow.  His  hands  rested  squarely  upon  his  knees.  By 
his  side,  taking  notes,  sat  his  stenographer,  his  glance 
half  curious  and  half  supercilious  playing  constantly 
over  the  faces  of  the  throng.  At  either  end  of  the  little 
table  behind  which  sat  the  inspector,  were  stationed  the 
interpreters,  one  for  each  tribe.  The  eyes  of  these  men 
were  searching,  though  their  lips  seemed  to  mock 
slightly,  and  when  they  spoke,  rising  to  interpret,  even 
though  they  passed  on  the  phrases  with  a  certain 
guarded  vehemence,  they  seemed  consciously  to  pre 
serve  a  detached  attitude,  as  do  those  who  speak  but 
will  not  be  held  accountable  for  what  they  say. 

Perhaps  the  arrangement  that  caused  the  mixed- 
bloods  and  the  other  younger  Indians  to  be  the  first 
to  deliver  their  speeches  was  intentional  on  the  part  of 
someone.  At  any  rate  one  by  one  they  arose,  in  over 
alls,  in  spurs,  in  bright  neckerchiefs,  differing  from 
each  other  in  type  and  temperament,  as  differed  also 
those  two  tribes,  and  indeed,  the  two  races,  represented 
there  within  the  council  room. 

Occasionally  after  some  speech  the  inspector  would 
get  up  and  pronounce  'in  continuance  a  few  elucidating 
words.  He  gesticulated  slightly  and  conventionally. 


Teepee  Neighbors  201 

He  bent  a  little  toward  the  interpreters,  each  in  turn. 
His  words  came  slowly  and  with  unction. 

The  subject  of  the  council  was  the  desire  of  the 
Indian  Bureau  to  throw  open  to  white  settlement  a 
half  of  the  reservation.  The  mixed-bloods  and  the 
younger  Indians  were,  though  they  spoke  but  briefly, 
in  accord  in  favoring  the  execution  of  the  plan. 
Their  words,  however,  from  some  lack  in  themselves 
of  knowledge  or  of  conviction,  were  not  uttered  in  a 
manner  calculated  to  tip  the  scale  greatly  their  way. 

"It's  a  question  of  water  rights,"  they  said.  "We 
must  have  money  to  buy  those  rights  and  how  else  can 
we  obtain  it  ?  It's  an  obligation  to  our  children." 

Again  and  again  the  same  note  was  struck.  One  by 
one  the  young  men  arose,  and  one  by  one  sat  down 
again.  The  interpreters  mopped  their  tired  brows. 
The  inspector  sipped  frequently  from  a  glass  of  water 
upon  his  table. 

The  air  was  full  of  the  odor  of  people,  pungent  with 
the  herb  perfume  worn  by  the  Indians  in  little  sacks 
sewed  to  the  clothing,  acrid  with  the  smell  of  sage 
clinging  to  shawls  and  dresses,  with  the  flavor  of 
smoke-tanned  buckskin.  A  half -open  window  let  in 
a  little  fitful  breeze  that  played  wantonly  with  the  dust 
showing  in  the  sunlight  of  the  upper  reaches  of  the 
room,  flirting  and  whisking  about  the  heads  of  the 
throng. 


2O2  Teepee  Neighbors 

At  last  it  came  time  for  the  weightier  speeches,  for 
those  of  the  councilmen,  of  the  chiefs,  of  indeed  the 
older  men  of  the  two  tribes,  the  patriarchs  of  this 
patriarchal  people. 

"Sell  our  land?"  they  cried.  "Retreat?  Give  up? 
Be  forced  into  contact  with  intermingling  whites? 
Take  money  in  place  of  our  land?  What,  money  for 
the  good  of  these  traders  who  will  get  it  all  from  us 
in  the  end?"  Their  old  faces  hardened;  their  eyes 
flamed.  "Give  up?  Retreat?  Move  on?  Abrogate 
the  old  promises,  the  old  treaties?  What,  again?" 
Their  lips  twisted  bitterly.  "Do  you  not  know,  does 
not  the  Great  Father  at  Washington  know,  that  all  we 
ask  now  of  life  is  a  little  land,  a  little  peace,  a  little 
place  wherein  to  live  quietly  our  quiet  life,  and  in  the 
end  a  little  ground  for  our  narrow  bed?  Move  on! 
That  we  think  was  the  first  word  the  whites — "  the 
'outsiders/  the  'aliens/  was  the  name  they  in  the  Indian 
tongue  gave  this  other  race — "said  to  us.  It  seems 
they  are  saying  it  yet/'  The  soft  bitter  voices  ceased ; 
the  old  men  sank  into  their  seats,  the  interpreters  too 
relaxed,  wiping  their  faces. 

The  inspector  stood  up  cautiously,  apologetically 
even.  "But  these  old  men,  the  chiefs,  do  not  seem  to 
have  caught  the  point.  The  whole  question  of  selling 
or  not  selling  turns  on  the  matter  of  their  water  rights ; 
on  theirs  and  their  childen's  as  has  been  said.  Land 


Teepee  Neighbors  203 

even  in  this  beautiful  Wyoming  valley  is  a  mockery 
without  water.  They  can  I  am  sure  understand  that ; 
water  they  must  have." 

An  old  chief  rose  solemnly,  turned  deep,  scornful 
eyes  upon  the  inspector.  "Let  the  white  man  from 
Washington  go  but  a  mile  yonder,"  his  extended  arm 
pointed  that  way,  "and  he  will  see  the  river  that  flows 
down  our  valley  and  waters  our  land.  It  is  there.  It 
is  ours.  It  is  born  in  these  mountains  above  us.  God 
made  them,  I  suppose  as  he  made  it.  It  is  ours." 

Along  the  packed  rows  there  was  a  slight  stirring. 

Patiently  again  the  inspector  arose.  "I  know  that  it 
is  hard  for  the  old  people  to  understand  that  having 
water  does  not  necessarily  mean  having  rights  to  that 
water.  There  exist  hundreds  of  white  men  below  you, 
beyond  the  border  of  your  reservation,  who  have  taken 
up  claims  along  this  same  stream  and  who  have  filed 
on  its  water  prior  to  any  Indian  having  done  so.  The 
State  must  recognize  this  priority.  The  whites  have 
filed  on  the  water  and  have  paid  the  dues.  Beside 
that  as  the  law  stands  now  the  Indians  cannot  individ 
ually  take  out  water  rights.  I  know  that  you  will  say 
that  when  this  reservation  was  given  to  these  two 
tribes,  a  matter  of  a  generation  and  a  half  ago,  the 
water  was  included  with  the  land,  'to  the  center  of  the 
streams  bordering  the  reservation/  as  your  old  treaty 
reads.  But  times  and  conditions  have  changed  since 


2O4  Teepee  Neighbors 

then.  At  that  period  the  Federal  Government  control 
led  the  water  of  Wyoming,  now  its  disposition  has 
been  turned  over  to  the  State,  Where  the  Indians 
stand  in  this  matter  has  never  been  decided  by  law." 

The  mixed-bloods  who  understood  at  least  partially, 
shifted  uneasily. 

"But  now — although  the  question  of  priority  has  still 
not  been  decided — •  the  Indian  Bureau — which  I  repre 
sent — says  that  you  as  a  tribe  may  buy  your  water 
rights.  For  this  you  must  have  money."  He  named  a 
sum  reaching  far  into  the  thousands.  "The  sale  of 
your  land  will  bring  you  this  amount  of  money,  at 
least.  This  thing  is  intricate  and  impossible  I  believe 
to  elucidate  to  the  older  people,  your  leaders.  They 
must,  I  fear,  just  hear  my  statements  and,  if  they  can, 
believe."  With  his  hands  he  made  a  deprecating  little 
gesture.  Then  he  sat  down. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room,  complete  save  for  a 
slight  stirring,  the  sound  of  deep  breathing,  and  the 
fretting,  here  and  there,  of  a  hungry  child. 

Finally  at  the  back  of  the  room,  by  some  shifting  of 
his  pose,  by  thrusting  himself  forward  beyond  the 
relief  of  his  line,  an  Indian  made  his  presence  known. 
He  was  a  man  of  powerful  build,  of  nobly  moulded 
head ;  his  hair  instead  of  having  been  braided,  had  been 
gathered  forward  into  two  loosely  twisted  strands ;  his 


Teepee  Neighbors  205 

eyes  showed  speculative  yet  keen,  his  mouth  was 
sharply  chiseled  though  withal  soft  in  its  lines,  and 
there  was  a  kindly  look  on  his  face  which  gave  some 
how  the  impression  of  the  morning  light  seen  upon  the 
rugged  side  of  a  great  mountain.  In  age  he  seemed  to 
be  between  the  young  and  the  old. 

As  he  made  his  presence  known  there  was  a  slow 
turning  of  the  heads  in  his  direction,  a  slight  tensing 
of  the  crowd.  The  old  chiefs  appeared  suddenly  eager 
and  filled  with  hope ;  as  for  the  younger  men  and  the 
mixed-bloods  they  glanced  at  him  and  looked  away 
again,  as  if,  sighing  they  said :  "Another  on  the  wrong 
side.  Ah,  the  blind  old  men !" 

Then  he  spoke.  His  voice  was  deep,  very  virile, 
carefully  subdued  as  something  held  in  leash,  and  yet 
through  it  there  seemed  to  run  a  tremor,  a  quaver 
almost,  that  gave  an  impression  of  strange  intensity. 

I  repeat  his  words  with  elision. 

"I  am  not  one  of  the  old  men,"  he  said,  "and  yet  I 
can  easily  remember  the  time  when  this  valley,  these 
mountains,  were  ours ;  not  because  someone  had  given 
them  to  us,  but  because  we  had  taken  them  for  our 
selves,  because  our  arrows  flew  straightest,  our  spears 
reached  furthest,  our  horsemen  rode  fastest,  our  hearts 
were  bravest." 

Here  several  of  the  old  men  grunted  sympathet- 


2o6  Teepee  Neighbors 

ically.  More  and  more  the  faces  of  the  throng  were 
turned  toward  the  speaker. 

"Then  everything  was  changed.  The  strangers  came 
like  a  flood,  like  our  rivers  in  the  spring:  they  surged 
over  us  and  they  left  us — as  we  are.  Perhaps  this  was 
the  will  of  the  Stranger-on-High,  we  cannot  tell... 
But  these  strangers  on  earth  were  not  altogether  un 
kind  to  us.  For  what  they  took  they  gave  a  sort  of 
compensation.  It  was  as  though  they  carried  away 
from  us  fat  buffaloes  and  then  handed  to  us  in  ex 
change  each  a  little  slice  of  their  meat.  They  deprived 
us  of  our  valley  and  our  mountains  but  instead  they 
gave  us  each  eighty  acres  of  the  land.  Then  they  sent 
more  strangers  with  chains  and  three-legged  toys  to 
measure  these  off  correctly  for  us.  They  gave  us  wire 
for  our  fences  but  only  enough  so  that  we  must  spend 
much  money  for  more.  They  gave  us  seed,  but  also 
so  little  that  we  were  driven  to  buy  more.  We  worked 
— some  of  us  with  the  chains  and  three-legged  toys — 
some  at  the  ditches,  every  way  we  could,  for  now  we 
needed  a  new  thing — something  of  which  we  had 
before  known  nothing,  money.  We  received  it — 
and  then  we  spent  it." 

Again  faint  grunts  and  groans  encouraged  him. 

"For  we  cannot  keep  money  long.  We  are  children. 
This  the  Great  Father  in  Washington  understands, 
and  also  that  our  ears  are  dull,  that  our  eyes  cannot 


Teepee  Neighbors  207 

read  his  written  words.  Therefore,  in  his  kindness, 
he  sends  to  us  this  man  to  speak  to  us  face  to  face." 
He  turned  his  slow  gaze  upon  the  inspector.  In  his 
eyes  was  the  look  of  mockery.  "We  have  listened  to 
his  words.  But  what  has  he  said  to  us?  'Give  up  the 
eighty  acres,  for  your  children  to  be  born,  give  up  the 
money  you  earned  and  spent,  give  up  your  homes ;  as 
you  gave  up  this  valley  and  these  mountains.  The 
white  men  need  them.  Your  day  is  past.  But  I  am 
not  unkind.  Without  compensation  I  will  not  deprive 
you.  See,  I  will  give  you  even  a  little  more  money — '  ' 
He  stopped  abruptly.  His  eyes  drooped,  his  shoulders, 
his  hands,  the  whole  man. 

A  strained  silence  had  fallen  upon  the  room,  smother 
ed  it.  From  it  escaped  the  faint  sighing  of  the  younger 
men.  The  chiefs  stiffened  as  they  sat. 

By  an  effort  the  speaker  seemed  to  rouse  himself. 
He  stared  strangely  about  the  room.  "There  was  a 
little  boy  once,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  had  grown 
dreamy,  slightly  high  in  pitch,  "and  this  little  boy  held 
his  hand  out  toward  the  flames,  nearer, — I  saw  it— 
the  fire  was  so  pretty,  so  warm,  it  danced,  purred, 
sparkled.  His  hand  crept  nearer,  nearer.  His  father 
watched  him.  At  the  last  moment  he  caught  him  and 
pulled  him  away.  The  child  cried  then,  he  struggled 
in  his  father's  arms,  he  pushed  away  from  him,  he 
fought.  Again  he  reached  out  toward  the  flame.  But 


2o8  Teepee  Neighbors 

finally  he  looked  up  into  the  man's  face  and  suddenly 
it  seemed  to  dawn  on  him  that,  although  he  could  not 
understand,  this  was  indeed  his  father,  old  and  wise 
and  loving;  and  that  he,  by  comparison,  was  only  a 
little  misguided  child .  . . "  The  strange,  vibrant 
voice  dwindled,  broke.  The  speaker  made  a  wide  ges 
ture  toward  the  attentive  inspector,  held  it  while  the 
interpreters  got  forth  in  English  his  last  sentence. 
Then  he  sank  back  into  his  old  place  against  the  wall  ; 
with  one  bent  hand  he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow. 

A  faint  sound  of  muttering  passed  over  the  room; 
old  fierce  eyes  were  \eiled,  young  keen  ones  peered  in 
credulously.  But  the  insector  was  on  his  feet  on  the 
instant,  his  hand  outstretched  to  grasp  the  golden 
moment. 

"There  is  no  more  to  be  said,"  he  cried.  "Our  ears 
are  ringing  with  words.  Our  hearts  are  full.  I  have 
here,  prepared,  a  paper.  Let  those  who  for  their  own 
good  and  the  good  of  their  children,  are  of  a  mind  to 
sell,  now  sign  it." 

Slowly,  amidst  moving  and  murmuring,  the  long 
paper,  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  interpreters,  made  its 
deliberate  rounds.  Difficult  signatures  were  inscribed 
in  slow  succession.  Ancient,  unaccustomed  hands, 
deft  enough  with  spear  or  bow,  grasped  awkwardly  the 
pen  and  with  it  made  their  wavering  "mark." 

Some  there  were  of  the  old  men,  indeed  the  majority 


Teepee  Neighbors  209 

of  them,  who  wrapping  their  blankets  about  them 
arose,  and  shambling,  withdrew,  aloof  and  soundless. 

Like  a  shaken  kaleidoscope  the  council  broke  up. 

The  inspector  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  a  hand 
shielding  the  working  of  his  mouth.  His  eyes  searched 
the  variegated,  dissolving  throng.  The  stenographer, 
still  seated  and  playing  with  his  idle  pencil,  shot  him 
an  understanding  glance. 

Later  the  Half-breed,  standing  on  the  board  walk 
outside  the  trading  store,  a  box  of  crackers  in  one  hand, 
a  paper  containing  pickles  in  the  other,  was  lunching 
heartily.  Suddenly  he  shifted  everything  into  his  left 
hand  and  strode  down  into  the  road.  For  in  company 
with  his  wife  and  a  young  son  the  last  of  the  speakers 
was  passing. 

The  Half -breed's  extended  hand  grasped  the 
Indian's. 

"I  thank  you  for  what  you  said,"  he  cried.  "It  was 
a  noble  thing  to  have  done.  You  faced  them  all;  the 
old  timers,  the  chiefs,  public  opinion,  prejudice.  And 
you  won.  It  was  a  brave  act." 

The  rugged,  illuminated  face  was  turned  to  him,  the 
deep  eyes  rested  squarely  upon  his.  "You  have  perhaps 
forgotten,"  he  said.  "You  are  younger  than  I  am  and 
too  you  have  been  for  a  long  time  with  the  whites — but 
I  remember  well  the  time  when  we  were  boys  and  our 
great  head-chief  Black  Star  used  to  sit  and  talk  with 


2io  Teepee  Neighbors 

us.  Yes,  you  have  perhaps  forgotten/*  he  repeated, 
and  his  look,  just  touched  with  yearning,  rested  upon 
the  younger  man.  "But  I  remember — I  have  never 
forgotten  what  he  used  to  say  to  us.  'Be  brave,'  he 
would  tell  us.  'That  is  the  chief  thing  to  learn ;  to  do 
what  each  one  believes  is  right,  to  speak  for  the  right, 
everywhere,  always.  To  be  fearless  of  tongues,  of 
persecution,  to  take  counsel  with  our  own  minds  and 
being  sure  to  speak  out  surely.  That/  he  always  said 
to  us,  'and  that  only,  is  the  man's  part/  " 


TIT  FOR  TAT 

THIS  WHOLE  affair  was  one  that  seemed  so  un 
speakable,  that  was  whispered  with  such  pale  lips,  such 
starting  eyes,  from  camp  to  camp,  from  man  to  man, 
from  woman  to  woman,  that  only  its  merest  exterior 
was  ever  known  to  us  who  were  outsiders.  But  the 
end  of  it  was  open  enough,  and  told  and  hopeless  and 
final. 

At  what  we  call  our  Sub-agency  there  was  the  usual 
trading  store  and  in  it  worked  as  clerk  and  general 
assistant  an  Indian.  He  was  a  man,  I  should  judge,  of 
about  forty,  a  little  too  old  to  have  ever  been  a  Govern 
ment  school  boy ;  a  man  of  steady,  almost  stately  bear 
ing,  of  fine  head  held  proudly  upon  powerful  shoulders, 
of  keen  level  glance,  and  personal  appearance  most 
fastidious. 

At  first  he  had  been  employed  in  the  store  as  a  sort 
of  janitor,  a  man  to  sweep  floors,  fill  lamps,  tend 
stoves,  open  freight  boxes.  He  had  worked  steadily, 
silently,  observantly;  and  then  at  the  end  of  one  un 
interrupted  year  he  had  sought  out  the  trader.  He 
spoke  in  Indian,  which  his  employer  understood. 

"I  can  read,"  he  said,  "and  I  can  write  a  little,  and  I 
can  figure.  I  have  been  learning."  He  picked  up  book 
and  pencil  lying  to  hand  and  made  good  his  claims. 

The  trader  regarded  him  with  astonishment.  When 
211 


212  Teepee  Neighbors 

the  man  had  first  come  to  him  to  work  he  had  been 
able  to  speak  but  few  and  hesitating  words  in  English. 
"How  in  the  world — ?" 

The  steady,  imperturbable  eyes  smiled  wisely.  "My 
little  girl  goes  to  school,  and  my  wife's  brother — " 

"I  see."  The  trader  regarded  the  man  measuringly. 
Then  he  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  store.  He  stop 
ped  in  front  of  the  Indian.  "George,"  he  said.  "I  need 
another  clerk.  Will  you  take  the  job?" 

So  in  my  day  George  Smoke  was  the  chief  clerk  in 
the  Sub-agency  store,  often  in  entire  charge  of  it  and 
of  its  little  postoffice.  He  was  the  trusted  right  hand 
of  the  trader.  There  was  no  Indian  on  the  reservation 
more  respected  than  he. 

He  was  a  married  man,  living  in  a  little  two-room 
cabin  which  the  trader  provided  and  which  was  close 
to  the  store.  His  wife  was  a  youngish,  rather  light- 
minded  woman;  the  mother  of  several  children;  a  little 
addicted  to  gambling.  We  thought  that  her  ways  were 
not  always  approved  of  by  her  husband. 

Then  the  crash  came,  unforeseen,  unattended.  Of 
course,  as  the  girls  said,  Jasper  Blue  Bird  was  fre 
quently  seen  hanging  about  Smoke's  wife's  house,  but 
then,  he  did  not  seem  to  be  secret  about  it — he  bore 
some  distant  relationship  to  Smoke — and  the  husband 
was  just  a  stone's  throw  away,  often  on  his  duties  pass- 


Teepee  Neighbors  213 

ing  in  and  out  of  the  store  and  in  full  view  of  his 
home. 

At  length  a  day  came  when  Smoke,  his  head  as  high 
as  ever,  his  eyes  level  and  imperturbable,  went  to  the 
trader. 

"Long  Neck,"  he  said— it  was  the  Indian  name  for 
the  man — "I  want  to  quit." 

The  trader  stared.    "To  quit?    To  quit  the  store?" 

"Yes.    I  want  my  pay." 

"But  youVe  been  with  me  three  years,  over  three 
years.  I  can't  run  the  store  without  you,  George.  And 
there's  that  fall  shipment  of  freight  just  coming  in — I 
was  thinking  you  could  begin  tomorrow  unpacking  and 
listing  it.  I  thought " 

"I  got  to  quit." 

The  trader  might  as  well  have  appealed  for  leniency 
to  the  smiling  sky  as  to  the  serene,  implacable  face 
confronting  him. 

"You'll— you'll  be  coming  back?" 

"1  don't  know." 

For  a  long  time  the  trader  fumbled  over  his  accounts 
and  the  contents  of  the  cash  drawer  before  he  found 
the  right  pay  for  his  clerk.  He  was  confounded. 
Silent,  pleasant,  impenetrable  before  him,  stood  Smoke. 
At  last  the  money  was  counted  out,  the  receipt  signed. 
The  Indian  took  his  pay  without  a  word,  turned  on  his 


214  Teepee  Neighbors 

moccasin-shod  feet,  and  strode  out  of  the  store,  his 
sleek  head  a  little  lowered. 

Then  for  two  months  Smoke  did  nothing.  He 
moved  his  family  out  of  the  cabin  which  belonged  to 
the  trader  and  'into  a  tent  also  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
store.  There  he  might  frequently  be  seen — as  might 
also  his  wife.  Their  four  children  were  in  the  board 
ing  school. 

The  very  observant  said  that  Jasper  Blue  Bird  had 
ceased  going  to  Smoke's  wife's  tent. 

Jasper  himself  was  also  a  married  man,  with  a  mild 
timid  little  Mission  girl  for  his  wife.  Although  three 
years  had  gone  by  since  the  day  of  their  marriage  there 
had  as  yet  been  no  children  born  to  them,  only  she 
plaintive  of  face,  was  in  the  teepee  to  welcome  him,  or 
to  speed  him.  But  often  there  were  also  with  her  her 
women  relations,  her  mother,  her  aunts,  her  grand 
mother.  Their  presence,  frequent,  chattering,  irked  her 
husband.  She  knew  this,  vaguely,  and  yet  seemed 
never  able  to  find  the  courage  to  send  them  away  but 
stood  plaintive  and  wistful  between  the  antipathetic 
factions  of  her  house. 

Then  suddenly  at  night  with  a  terrible  sound  of 
sobbing  this  little  wife  had  flung  herself  upon  the  door 
step  of  the  Mission,  clutching  and  scratching  at  the 
locked  door.  The  sisters  within,  wild-eyed  and 
scared,  had  opened  to  the  sound  of  her  distress.  She 


Teepee  Neighbors  215 

lay  torn,  bruised,  and  disheveled  in  a  frenzy  of  fright, 
incoherent,  almost  speechless. 

Her  mother  was  sent  for.    Then  her  husband. 

The  woman  came  wide-eyed,  loud-voiced,  fearful, 
aghast.  They  waited  for  the  husband,  but  it  was  two 
days  before  he  arrived,  slinking  in  after  dark,  abashed 
and  furtive. 

The  doctor  also  came  and  there  followed  with  him 
a  fearful  scene  of  humiliation.  Then  his  evidence  was 
reported  to  the  agent. 

Her  own  story  ran  like  this :  She  had  been  coming 
home  from  her  mother's  tent  to  her  own,  just  a  little 
way.  It  was  dark.  Yes,  and  cold.  She  had  her  blan 
ket  up  over  her  head  and  had  been  walking  fast.  She 
had  not  heard  so  much  as  a  step  until — here  she  always 
stopped,  choking,  and  sobbed  spasmodically. 

"Yes,  it  was  George  Smoke." 

They  regarded  her  gravely.  "You  are  quite  sure  it 
was  George  Smoke?" 

Beside  little  Mrs.  Blue  Bird  there  was  one  other 
person  who  was  "quite  sure,"  and  that  was  George 
Smoke's  wife.  Her  attitude  was  singular.  For  she 
went  to  the  agent's  office,  alone,  and  there  standing 
before  him,  her  shawl  drooping  and  trailing  about  her, 
she  denounced  her  own  husband.  She  was  very 
specific.  "It  was  revenge,"  she  said.  They  stared  at 
her,  not  understanding. 


216  Teepee  Neighbors 

"Explain!" 

This  of  course  she  could  not  do. 

Then  came  out  the  stories  of  the  frequent  visits  of 
Jasper  Blue  Bird  to  Smoke's  wife's  tent.  Finally  a 
charge  was  brought  against  Jasper. 

Both  men  were  tried  at  the  next  term  of  court. 

Jasper  appeared  cowed,  cringing;  he  stepped  lightly, 
veiled  his  eyes,  even  bowed  himself  a  little. 

George  Smoke  however  was  his  constant,  haughty, 
imperturbable  self.  Even  the  sight  of  the  plaintive 
little  wife,  his  pitiful  victim,  did  not  visibly  shake 
him.  When  asked  for  his  explanation,  excuse,  if 
excuse  there  was,  he  only  laughed,  staring  insolently 
at  the  judge. 

Considering  the  delicate  nature  of  the  case  had  the 
trial  been  a  "white"  one,  it  would  have  been  carried  on 
behind  closed  doors.  But  as  it  was,  the  populace,  ugly, 
scandalous,  foul,  of  the  little  county  seat  was  admitted, 
and  freely.  The  two  women  were  stared  at,  appraised ; 
the  men  eyed  sullenly,  with  indeed  an  occasional  gleam 
of  sinister  mirth.  That  the  wife  of  Smoke  would  soon 
bear  another  child  was  only  too  apparent. 

The  sentences  of  the  two  men  were  similar,  five  years 
at  hard  labor  in  the  "pen"  at  Rawlins.  And  in  a 
few  days,  hand-cuffed  and  side  by  side,  the  two  were 
led  away. 

But  all  the  time  in  the  eyes  of  George  Smoke,  wheth- 


Teepee  Neighbors  217 

er  he  looked  at  his  own  hard-eyed  wife  or  at  the 
stooping,  cringing  man  toward  whom  her  eyes  so 
frequently  turned,  or  at  the  little  weeping  childless 
wife  of  Jasper  Blue  Bird,  was  visible  a  gleam  of 
triumphant  satisfaction,  of  hunger  glutted. 

So  we  saw  him  at  the  last,  the  steady,  exultant  look 
in  his  eyes,  his  bearing  calm,  relentless,  assured,  un 
shaken. 


THE  OTHER  MAD  MAN 

THEY  CALLED  him  Crooked  Hand.  He  had  another 
name,  two,  in  fact ;  an  English  one  and  a  proper  Indian 
one.  But  because  his  hand  and  arm  were  crooked — 
withered,  twisted — they  called  him  Crooked  Hand, 
making  a  descriptive  sign  for  him  in  their  language 
of  signs.  His  leg  was  also  crooked,  also  withered  and 
twisted,  and  beside  that  he  was  an  epileptic.  A  strange 
disheveled  looking  creature  he  was;  a  rough  shock  of 
stiff,  short  hair  crowned  him,  ill  assorted  ragged  clothes 
covered  him,  he  wore  any  odd  shoes  that  came  his  way ; 
in  short  he  was  neither  prepossessing  nor  clean.  His 
great  eyes  that  seemed  startled,  even  hurt,  in  their  ex 
pression,  were  soft,  unlike  the  steely  sharpness  of  most 
Indian  eyes,  but  withal  shallow,  as  are  the  eyes  of 
animals;  eyes  that  indeed  seemed  hardly  the  windows 
of  a  soul. 

His  conversation,  in  English  at  least,  was  decidedly 
limited,  was  in  fact  restricted  almost  to  one  single 
sentence. 

"How  do  you  do,  George?" 

"Hello !  hello !" 

"Well,  what's  the  news  in  the  camps?" 

Then  he  would  look  at  you  with  his  strange,  pathetic, 
almost  animal  eyes  and  smiling  his  wistful  bewildered 
smile  he  would  gently  reply,  "Dam-fi-no."  Often  I 
had  heard  him  thus  innocently  answer  many  innocent 

218 


Teepee  Neighbors  219 

questions,  and  yet  each  time  that  the  incongruous 
phrase  was  hurled  at  me  I  would  have  to  hold  my  face 
steadily  to  keep  it  seemly. 

"And  your  step-mother,  what  is  she  doing  today?"" 

Again  the  wistful,  bewildered  smile  would  light  the 
sombre  eyes,  again  in  the  soft,  hoarse  voice:  "Dam 
n-no." 

Sometimes  he  would  arrive  looking  more  directly 
gloomy  than  usual. 

"What  is  it?"    I  would  cry. 

And  he,  struggling  with  the  elusive  English  would 
manage :  "Hungry,  heap  hungry.  No  bread.  No 
meat.  Children  cry."  And  he  would  saw  his  hand 
across  his  middle  in  the  "hungry"  sign. 

As  we  all  know  it  is  good  when  we  are  a  little  stirred 
to  be  able  to  do  something  immediate  and  definite.  So 
I  would  spring  up,  fly  to  my  refrigerator  for  scraps; 
meat,  bread,  cold  potatoes,  cold  pancakes,  seasoned  or 
unseasoned,  any  way,  any  thing;  and  I  would  heap  a 
great  plateful  and  set  it  on  his  uneven  knees.  He 
would  stare  at  it  with  famished  eyes ;  and  he  would  eat 
of  it,  but  only  a  little,  a  taste  of  this,  a  taste  of  that. 
And  then  he  would  ask  me  for  a  bit  of  paper — all  the 
time  with  his  starving  eyes  upon  the  food — and,  with 
a  certain  dexterity  despite  his  crooked  hand  he  would 
empty  the  scraps  into  the  spread  paper,  and  wrapping 


22O  Teepee  Neighbors 

all  together  he  would  rise  to  his  uncertain  feet,  a  smile 
upon  his  face,  hunger  in  his  eyes. 

"You're  not  going  to  eat  any  more?" 

"No.     Them  children,  heap  hungry.     I  take." 

"Oh!  all  right."  Not  for  worlds  would  I  have 
tarnished  with  so  much  as  a  finger-touch,  his  altruism. 
"But  you'll  have  a  cigarette  before  you  go,  won't  you?" 

At  that  he  would  lay  down  his  bundle  and,  seating 
himself  securely,  he  would  smile  up  at  me  from  his 
crazy,  shallow  eyes,  and,  as  he  smiled,  help  himself  to 
my  proffered  tobacco  and  paper. 

"I  savvy  roll  'em.    You  ever  see  me?" 

"No,"  I  always  said  as  I  stood  before  him  to  admire. 
Upon  his  knee  he  would  flatten  out  the  little  oblong  of 
paper,  pour  into  it  the  requisite  amount  of  tobacco, 
manage,  not  unskilfully  with  his  one  hand,  to  roll  his 
cigarette. 

"That's  fine,"  said  I.    "How  did  you  learn  to  do  it?" 

And  "Dam-fi-no,"  would  answer  George,  pleasantly. 
Then  resuming  his  bundle  he  would  arise  and  lurch 
painfully  away. 

"Of  course  you  might  send  him  away,"  I  suggested. 
"There's  a  place — an  asylum — you  know  for  Indians 
who  are  not — are  not — well,  you  understand.  But 
he's  alright  except  when  he  has  those  'spells/  as  you 
call  them,  isn't  he?" 

"He  has  'em  often  now." 


Teepee  Neighbors  221 

"It's  pretty  hard  on  all  of  you." 

"The  children  they  bese  'fraid  o'  him." 

"Then  why  not  send  him  away?" 

"You  see — he's  awful  kind,  and  good.  When  we 
short  o'  grub  he  just  don't  eat  nothin',  'most.  Gives  it 
all  to  them  kids. 

"Then  why  are  they  afraid  of  him?" 

"He — he  took  the  axe  once — " 

"The  axe!" 

"Yes.  You  mind  the  time  that  blind  boy,  Sits-in- 
the-Night,  come  here  to  see  you?  His  head  was 
bleedin'  you  remember?  And  you  drove  him  up  to 
the  Agency  to  the  doctor." 

"Certainly  I  do.  He  told  me  his  horse  had  thrown 
him." 

"I  know  he  told  you  that.  He  didn't  want  to  make 
no  trouble  for — for  George."  Involuntarily  the  fin 
gers  of  his  right  hand  tapped  upon  the  wrist  of  his 
bent  left.  "But,  really  it  was  Crooked  Hand  done  it, 
he  took  the  axe — " 

"Oh,  my  goodness !" 

"Afterward  when  the  spell  was  over  he  feelin'  so 
bad  he  cryin'  about  it." 

Another  day  soon  after  this,  Crooked  Hand  came, 
stumbling  and  lurching,  to  my  door.  His  face  worked ; 
tears  streamed  from  his  shallow  eyes. 

"Why,  George!  What's  the  matter?    What  is  it?" 


222  Teepee  Neighbors 

He  found  a  chair.  "They  take  my  gun/'  he  mtmv 
bled.  I  want  it.  I  want  shoot.  Poom\"  His  good 
hand  made  a  suggestive  sign  against  his  own  breast. 
"I  die." 

"Oh,  George,  no,  no !" 

He  glowered  at  me.  "I  take  my  gun.  I  shoot/' 
He  repeated  the  words  doggedly. 

"What's  happened  now.  What's  so  much  the  mat 
ter?" 

He  stared  at  me  vacantly.     "Dam-n-no,"  he  said. 

All  day  he  sat  in  that  same  chair,  glowering,  mum 
bling,  eating  when  I  gave  him  food,  talking  in  his  un 
intelligible  English,  whenever  I  would  listen.  It  was 
to  me  a  distressing  and  a  very  long  day.  About  sun 
down  his  step-mother  with  one  of  her  children  came 
for  him.  He  left  me  much  as  he  had  come,  muttering, 
crying  a  little,  half  reluctant  and  altogether  bewildered. 

Then  I  heard  that  he  had  gone ;  that  they  had  taken 
him  to  that  place  of  mysterious  location  and  tenantry, 
that  vestibule  of  the  realms  of  death;  that  bourne 
whence,  in  common  with  death,  no  traveler,  or  almost 
none,  returns.  It  seemed  that  what  had  brought  the 
thing  to  an  issue  had  happened  at  the  Sun  Dance. 
When  every  one  was  inside  the  lodge,  absorbed  by  its 
thrilling  spectacle,  Crooked  Hand,  outside,  had  been 
attacked  by  one  of  his  "spells."  His  evil  spirit  rode 
and  goaded  him.  An  old  inoffensive  Indian  lay  asleep 


Teepee  Neighbors  223 

in  the  shade  of  some  nearby  bushes.  The  possessed 
man  came  upon  him.  A  broken  bottle  which  presented 
itself  to  him  opportunely  served  for  his  weapon.  He  fell 
upon  the  old  man  viciously.  The  commotion  was 
heard  even  in  the  dance  lodge.  Men  rushed  out.  The 
victim  was  quickly  rescued,  the  mad-man  bound.  But 
the  affair,  having  happened  in  that  crowded  public 
place,  got  noised  about,  came  at  last  even  to  the  agent's 
ears. 

"He  must  go.  There  is  an  asylum  in  South  Dakota 
to  which  he  must  be  sent." 

So  an  employee  of  the  government  was  delegated 
to  take  him  to  that  unknown  place.  To  reach  it  they 
must  make  a  journey  of  nearly  twenty- four  hours,  and 
by  train. 

Of  his  parting  with  his  people  I  know  nothing.  No 
one  ever  spoke  of  it  to  me  and  I  never  asked  of  it. 
Some  things  are  better  left  mercifully  covered.  But  of 
the  journey  I  heard  later  from  the  employee  who  had 
accompanied  him. 

"No,  he  didn't  give  me  any  trouble.  He  slept  all 
right,  and  he  ate  all  right.  But  he  seemed  uneasy.  At 
every  little  noise  he  would  start  and  glance  quickly  over 
his  shoulder.  And  he  insisted  on  sitting  faced  the 
wrong  way  and  staring  and  staring  back  in  the  direction 
from  which  we  had  come.  He  would  not  talk.  I 
could  not  get  even  his  famous  phrase  out  of  him.  And 


224  Teepee  Neighbors 

once  he  cried  a  little.  I  could  see  the  tears  running 
unheeded  down  his  cheeks.  And  after  all,  in  a  way,  he 
is  a  man . . .  When  we  had  nearly  reached  Canton  we 
were  obliged  to  pass  from  one  car  to  another  quite  at 
the  other  end  of  the  train.  He  walked  ahead  of  me;  I 
followed  at  his  heels  guiding  and  encouraging  him.  In 
the  lurching  of  the  train  it  seemed  an  endless  journey. 
At  last  we  passed  into  a  sleeping  car  to  be  confronted 
by  a  full-length  mirror.  Crooked  Hand  saw  it,  or 
rather  what  it  reflected.  He  stopped  dead;  then  he 
strode  up  close  to  it,  halted  again,  stared.  I  laid  my 
hand  on  his  arm.  'Go  on!  Go  on!'  I  said.  But  he 
heeded  me  not  at  all.  In  the  mirror,  over  his  shoulder, 
I  saw  his  face.  It  was  transfigured,  beatific.  His  lips 
moved;  he  was  speaking  brokenly  in  Indian.  He 
stretched  out  a  shaking  hand.  The  man  in  the  glass 
of  course  did  likewise.  I  have  never  seen  on  a  human 
face  such  an  expression  of  trembling  yearning,  of  in 
credible  joy. 

"Every  one  was  staring  at  us ;  as  you  can  imagine 
every  face  in  that  car  was  turned  toward  us.  I  shook 
him  a  little.  'Come,  George,  come !  You  must,  really/ 
But  he  was  still  oblivious,  standing  staring,  staring — 
Then  he  lurched  and  made  as  though  he  would  sink 
down  upon  the  floor.  I  caught  him  by  his  arm  to 
check  him.  'George,  come  on,  come  on!  what  is  it? 
What's  the  matter?' 


Teepee  Neighbors  225 

"For  an  instant  he  rested  his  vacant  eyes  on  mine, 
then  eagerly  sought  again  the  reflection  in  the  mirror. 
Suddenly  a  terrible  sob  broke  from  him  and  he  seemed 
to  collapse  and  shrink  together  against  my  arm. 

"  'Come  on,  boy,  come  on !' 

"He  lifted  a  trembling,  grimy  hand  and  pointed  it 
toward  the  creature  confronting  him.  He  seemed  to 
be  struggling  for  speech.  Did  he  imagine,  I  wondered, 
that  the  man  before  him  was  another  Indian,  come  to 
him  in  his  loneliness?  Or  had  he,  rather,  an  inkling 
that  that  wild-eyed,  disheveled  creature  was  indeed 
the  ghost  of  his  poor  self  ?  At  any  rate  all  this  emotion 
was  proving  too  much  for  his  shallow  wits.  His  head 
sank  limp  upon  his  breast. 

"I  shook  his  arm.  The  scene,  with  everybody  staring 
at  us,  was  growing  unbearable. 

"  'George,  what  is  it?' 

"Then,  his  chin  upon  his  breast,  his  vacant  eyes  on 
the  floor,  he  mumbled  a  reply.  'Dam-fi-no/  he  said." 


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